War of the Five Dragons
by John Fredrick Parker
Summary: A little something we've* been working on over at . Basic idea - we begin just before things went to hell at the Tourney of Harrenhall and Robert's Rebellion. An original character enters the scene, and everything is about to change. *Since this is a collaborative story over there, I've noted those chapters which were written by my collaborator, AJNolte. Thanks and enjoy!
1. Book One: Chapter 1 (Elia)

Book One

 **The Dragon's Fool**

 **ELIA**

The princess walked into the throne room to the sound of the king's frightening laughter; before her mad father by marriage, she saw a man, dressed in black and red motley, moaning about, flailing a rapier about with his right arm, and dragging his left foot. The fool in motley was humming tunelessly, making his way to the large open flame Aerys liked to have lit in his presence, making as if to attack it; as she approached the deus, Elia got a look at the man's face, contorting and biting his upper lip, and which, by her guess, was somewhere between thirty and forty years of age.

The king laughed. "So Fool, how does my champion fare against your skill?"

The fool's voice was that of a touched mind, swinging between high and low, loud and soft, and stuttering as it went; "It i-is a w-w-w-orth-y ad... versary, m-your G-Graaace."

The king laughed again, and turned to Elia; her stomach churned to hear his joy at tormenting the poor fool, and to see his disgusting grin. "This simpleton was sent to us by your brothers as a gift for you, daughter; tell me, do you find him as entertaining as I do?"

Elia wanted to tell her husband's father that she did not find his treatment entertaining at all, to say the old man there was the true fool, as a repulsive one at that. But she did not. Truth be told, she found jesters like these in poor taste, and was surprised to hear that her brothers would send such a sad creature in an attemt to lift her spirits. Then again, it had been so long since she heard anything at all from her beloved Oberyn and dear Doran, and did not want to send away the first thing they sent. "I am happy to receive him" was the only thing she could both prudently and honsetly say.

Aerys waved his hand, as if to say he was satisfied enough with the answer; "Take him then. I am sore from laughter, but may ask for him again in time." Elia excused herself, and walked with the fool to her husband's room.

When they were some distance from the throne room, Elia turned and noticed that the fool was now walking normally, without a limp. To her further surprise, he leaned toward her as they walked, and whispered: "So, what did you think of the performance?"

Elia smiled; she knew her brothers would not send to her the type of fool common in the other courts of Westeros. "It was convincing, good ser."

"I'm no 'Ser'" said the gift, "only a friend of your brother's, sent to look in on you. Just so you know, once I pass along my report, it is my intention to find my way out of this place."

"That is probably for the best. You know my brother then?"

"Yes, I met your brother as a lad, when I was still a slave in Lys. My master was a shopkeeper who intended to use me to keep the books and other records, and so allowed me as a young boy to become educated. Unfortunately for him, the more learned I became, the more I came to resent my status and our arrangement..."

"You met my brother in Lys? So this was seven years...?"

The fool raised his hand. "Apologies Princess, you asked how I knew Oberyn Martell, and I have been boring you with my life story. I should simply say, then, that when your brother first saw me, he saw me and my master, the latter of who was screaming and proceding to beat me again..."

"Again?"

"Yes, I lost count as to how he had done so prior. Suffice to say, your brother found my situation intriguing enough to hold my master's hand and ask what it was about. He asked about my offense - I cannot recall what it was I had done that day to upset master - but I do recall your brother asking me what I thought of my life. When I gave him my honest appraisal - that I found it wanting - he laughed and asked if I would prefer to have my freedom. When I gave a strong answer in the affirmative, he asked me a third question, 'What would you do with your freedom?', and I told him I would get the fuck out of Lys - pardon my language, Princess."

"No that's fine. So my brother offered to buy your freedom, I take it?"

"That he did. Additionally he gave me enough money to buy my way to any place outside of Lys of my choosing, and told that if I ever needed to ask another favor, to come to his home at Water Gardens of Dorne."

"And you've now came back to repay your debt?"

"Oh gods no; first thing I did with your brother's gift was make my way to Braavos, where I was happy to live the rest of my days. Nearly did really; did quite well for myself in a mummer's company, made myself a small fortune, found myself a... well Princess, as I said, I don't want to bore you with my life story."

"It doesn't sound boring at all."

"Well I thank you Princess, but suffice to say, I would never have thought to leave the city or see Westeros at all, had I not learned that it would be a good idea to disappear from the city I loved for a time, if I wished to continue living. So, recalling your brother's offer, I made my way to Sunspear to see how I might make Dorne my home for a time..."

Elia could put together the rest. "So you were reaquainted with my brother, he reminded you of your debt..."

"Well I suppose in so many words, but yes, and... here I am." At this, the two arrived at the chambers of the Crown Prince and Princess.

Before they entered, Elia asked the man in motley, "What is your name?" "While we are here Princess," he answered, "it is Stevron the Lackwit. You have little need to know any of my others."

It was only Elia, her children, and Stevron in the quarters that night, as the Crown Prince had already ridden off to Harrenhall to arrive early; she, his wife, was to come later, while his father stayed to rule in King's Landing. Elia told Stevron about her condition, that she was safe enough, that her husband treated her well, and that the only person it the keep she ever had reason to be cautious of was her father by marriage, the king. "And even there, my husband protects me. When we travel to Harrenhall, arrangements will be made to provide for my safety and position permanently. Tell my brothers that if they want to look after my interests, to make sure that Oberyn or a sufficently influential relative is in attendence to work with my husband." Upon ending their discussion, Stevron made his leave.

...

As it happened though, this was the last time Princess Elia Martell saw or heard from the man known as Stevron the Lackwit. She did not learn of his fate until the final preparations were being made for their departure for Harrenhall were being made - and King Aerys summoned Elia Martell and her company to the throne room.

"There has been a change of plan" the Mad King said upon their arrival. "I will be joining you and my son on your visit to the tourney."

Elia's heart sunk at this. _This complicates things_ , she thought; _how can my husband call a council with his father in attendence?_

But the king was not done. "Incidentally my daughter" he said with a sly smile "your new fool will not be joining us. My spider had brought me information suggesting that this new simpleton may not be all he appears, and so has been sent to the black cells on suspicion of being a spy. I did not want to kill him as he was so amusing earlier, but he is to remain in the dungeons until our return."

 _But Elia Martell could not concentrate on the his words. The king is coming to Harrenhall; am I as safe as I thought?_


	2. Book One: Chapter 2 (Jaime)

**JAIME**

Prince Rheagar had donned his night-black armor, with the three-headed dragon picked out in rubies on his breastplate. "Your Grace" Jaime pleaded "let Darry stay to guard the king this once, or Ser Barristan. Their cloaks are as white as mine."

The prince shook his head. "My royal sire fears your father more than he does our cousin Robert. He wants you close, so Lord Tywin cannot harm him. I dare not take away that crutch from him at such an hour."

Jaime's anger rose up in his throat. "I am not a crutch. I am a knight of the Kingsguard."

"Then guard the king" Ser Jon Darry snapped at him. "When you donned the cloak, you promised to obey."

Rheagar put his hand on Jaime's shoulder. "When the battle is done, I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago but... well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return." The prince turned as if to go, but then turned around, grabbed Jaime, holding him close. "Watch over my wife and children" he whispered "and keep the fool hidden."

Jaime nodded, and at that, the crown prince mounted his horse and rode off, not to be seen by Jaime again.

…

That had been weeks ago. Prince Rheagar had been killed on the Trident, and now his father was impaled on Jaime's sword yelling "BURN THEM ALL! BURN THEM ALL!" The kingsguard slid his blade through the old man's lungs, which quieted him, and dropped his bloody body to the floor. Jaime looked up toward the Iron Throne, and he couldn't help but imagine himself climbing up and waiting in the seat until somebody discovered the king's body; the image certainly amused him. But just then he heard a noise, turned and saw Stevron - the fool Rheagar had asked him to hide.

Jaime had already arrived at the Red Keep as a member of the Kingsguard sometime before his liege; the first thing the king did upon his arrival was send for the poor entertainer, who had spent the past months in the black cells. The man who was brought before them was visibly thinned and covered in filthy rags. "Now" Aerys had said "say something funny."

The poor man could only cry at this he told his tormenter how he had spent the last several weeks in total darkness, with little food or water, frequently going thirsty, and more often than not sleeping in his own filth, all eating away at his sanity. And at this the king had laughed; "That is funny; hilarious actually! Very well then, I will not burn you. Have this simpleton washed and dressed in motley; I will have him entertain us tonight for supper."

"Is he dead?" the dragon's fool now asked.

His tormenter gurgled at that; "not yet, it would seem" Jaime replied, and kicked the mad old man in the chest.

Both Jaime and this Stevron had seen what the Mad King was capable of; both were there when Lord Rickard Stark was burned alive, and his son Brandon stangled himself in his chains trying to save him. Jaime stood silently in his white cloak, while fellow Kingsguard Ser Hightower repeated words about not judging the king; but Jaime barely remembered those words, remembering only the screams of the Starks. Stevron, for his part, had been dressed in his black and red motley, in chains similar to Brandon's, forced to dance and serenade the screaming men, his melody broken by gasps and tears.

But now the fool was smiling, and, for the first time Jaime could remember, laughing. "He's dead, he's dead, he's dead!" The laughing man ran up so that he could kick the dying man as well. "Die, die already, you miserable, wretched, horrid..." - at this, Jaime intervened restraining Stevron.

When Rheagar had finally returned to King's Landing following the Battle of the Bells, he saw to a good many things, one of which was taking the man known as Stevron the Lackwit from Aerys' custody and hiding him among the Kingsguard. "Varys says he may be a spy from the east, so I won't let him go; but I've also made clear to the Spider that if any harm comes to him while I'm gone, he would find himself crushed beneath my foot." Jaime by then knew that the fool had been meant as a gift for the prince's wife from her brothers, so the Crown Prince's action wasn't entirely selfless. Still, Jaime had admired him for it, and the man known as Stevron had spoke his gratitude.

It was then, restraining the same man, that Jaime had remembered the other promise he had made to Rheagar. "Calm yourself Fool! Listen, I'm going now to protect the new king and his mother and sister. You can stay here if you want." Hearing this, Stevron calmed himself and nodded, before kicking the king's now dead body once more. With that, they made their way to the chambers of the Crown Prince.

But when they approached the room, they found several armed men already outside it. Jaime instinctively drew his sword and charged, and it was not until the men started to retreat that he even noticed that they were wearing Lannister colors. He chopped down the men who were too slow to flee as he entered the room.

For a moment, Jaime was too horrified to react - before him he saw his father's bannerman, the giant Gregor Clegane, raping the Crown Princess; Gregor himself, having heard Jaime, stopped his crime long enough to turn. In that moment, such a rage had filled Jaime Lannister that he set upon the largest, strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms, managing to slice the monster's face before the latter could react and grab his own sword.

From there, it was a more even fight with blades, for while the Mountain had the strength, Jaime had the skill and the fury. As they fought, Jaime could hear the screams of a little girl, who sounded something like the Princess Rhaenys, and the shouts of a man Jaime recognized as another of his father's creatures, Ser Amory Lorch. "Shut your fucking screams, you little c***!" it said. Fortunately, Jaime then heard a clank, and another voice, this one of that Fool Stevron "Leave alone, you s***!", followed by the clanking of Ser Lorch racing out of the room and into the hall, as the Stevron's shouting echoed over him, "S***, I regret this decision!"

And through it all, Jaime fought the Mountain. Finally, he managed to knock the creature's sword from his hand, then shoved his own through the foul shit's face. This did not quite kill him, as Gregor grabbed Jaime's body and threw him to the floor. But Jaime held to his sword, and managed to draw it out, opening the giant's face. At this, the monster cried out in pain, and was distracted enough that Jaime managed to turn their fighting bodies over putting himself on top. And then, without skipping a moment, he pounded his left fist through the Mountain's open skull.

Exhausted, Jaime fell off his dying opponent, and looked to Elia Martell. She was crying, bawling in fact, looking over her bloodied arms. _That's understandable_ , thought Jaime. He stood and looked around the room, to make sure the children were there and safe as well. Rhaenys he found easily enough; the little girl was crawling out from under her bed, clothes torn to shreds (by Lorch, no doubt), but otherwise looked to be unharmed. But for what seemed like a long time (and yet was likely only moments) Jaime could not seem to find the infant Aegon...

And then he saw it. On the wall, a large red stain. And on the floor, in front of the crying queen, a mangle of blood and flesh; Jaime had failed to notice it because it looked nothing like a child. He still could not bring himself to believe, until he asked "Your Grace, is that..." - and the Queen looked up at him sobbing, whispering "My son".

No words came to Jaime Lannister; his strength flooded out of his body until he could not support his own weight and he dropped to his knees. _I've killed one king, only to fail to defend another._ And Jaime joined the Queen and Princess in their tears.


	3. Book One: Chapter 3 (Eddard)

**EDDARD**

(chapter written by AJ Nolte)

The sack of King's Landing was in progress as his men marched grimly up to the Red Keep. Ned saw a Lannister guardsmen carrying off a cask of wine, while two others held down a struggling girl. His northmen had put a stop to the latter, but even he was not so foolish as to try and separate a soldier from wine. Now, at last, the Red Keep was in sight. A red-haired western knight approached, giving Ned a slight bow.

"My Lord, I am Lord Damon Marbrand. Lord Tywin asked me to conduct you to him. There is a... matter... which requires your attention, and that of the king.

The scene Ned found in the throneroom was not one he had expected to see in this life: Tywin Lannister and his son, Jaime, glaring at one another.

"Lord Stark," Tywin's voice had a note of icy politeness. "His Grace is not far behind you, I trust?"

"Not far, Lord Tywin. Lord Marbrand spoke to me of a situation that required his attention."

"Just so. It would seem that certain of my household knights, in the heat of the sack, attacked Elia Martell and her children by Rhaegar. The boy is dead; the girl lives."

"And Princess Elia?"

"Survived, but is in distress. Certain... liberties were taken. My son dealt with the men in question."

"All of this is true, Ser Jaime?" Ned's eyes turned to the young knight, who nodded wordlessly. _There is something between father and son here; something they do not wish me to know. I will leave that for now._

"And the king?"

"Slain, by my hand." There was a challenge in Jaime's voice as he regarded the Lord of Winterfell. Ned kept his face expressionless, but heard the voices of his men. "King-slayer". "Oath-breaker".

"And have you any other witnesses?"

"Aye, there is one; the king's fool." Tywin smirked.

"Would you speak with him, Lord Stark?"

"I would."

...

"That's about the size of it, MLord." The man calling himself Stevron told a harrowing tale. Ned steepled his fingers, regarding the man.

"So, in breaking his oath, Ser Jaime saved the city?"

"Aye, M'Lord, that he did, and I'm of a mind to be grateful of that fact myself, if you'll pardon me saying."

Ned gave the "fool" a wintry smile. "And what of the claim by Lord Tywin that his men acted without orders?"

"As to that, M'Lord, I couldn't say... but it was a right particular group of cut-throats, if you take my meaning."

Ned nodded. "I most certainly do." He turned to two of his close companions. "Ethan, Mark, go with this man and keep guard over Princess Elia." Ethan Glover and Mark Risewell nodded. "Where is Ser Jaime?"

"With the child - that is, Princess Rhaenys, Ned," said Howland Reid. "Good. Theo, you'll stand guard with him." Theo Wull nodded, and Jaime hoped the big, imposing man, plus the presence of Ser Jaime, would prevent any further "accidents" from befalling Rhaegar's daughter.

...

"This is a fine bloody mess, other's take it!" Robert, The First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, slammed his fist into the table. "Curse Ser Jaime for a damned fool! Had he not intervened, we would be rid of the dragon-spawn forever!"

"They are children, Robert!" Ned's own voice was harsh.

"I see not children, but dragon-spawn!" Robert snapped, rage suffusing his face.

"And you ought to see a Dornish Princess and her daughter." Jon Arryn's voice cut through the incipient argument like a knife.

"The other's take the bloody Dornish." Robert grumbled, but his rage had been tamped down to a sullen smoulder. Jon looked to Ned.

"What happened to the infant Prince and Elia Martell was dishonorable, Ned, but we must deal with things as they are. We can hardly turn away a Lannister alliance at this point."

"You do not believe Lord Tywin's story, do you Jon?"

"I do not." Jon Arryn gave his foster son a mirthless smile. "But it does us little good to say otherwise; the child is dead, Elia Martell has been raped, and Lord Tywin's son killed the men responsible. We cannot change those facts; what remains is to avoid starting a war. And," now Jon fixed Robert with his sternest gaze, "if that is to be done, Princess Rhaenys must, be, kept, alive."

"I will not have dragon-spawn..."

"Do you wish to be king of Seven Kingdoms or six?" Jon's question was sharp, and Robert gave him a startled look.

"Others take it, Jon. If we send Rhaenys to the Martells they'll declare her Queen and rebel. The damned Dornish let women inherit, so by their laws, she's the bloody Queen!"

"And if we kill the Prince of Dorne's niece in cold blood, they will rebel just as surely."

"And they will not be alone," Ned put in. "Do you truly think men will willingly follow a child-slayer?"

"If she had died in the confusion of a sack, we could let Tywin Lannister take the fall, but killing the girl on your order is tantamount to a declaration of war on Dorne."

"To the Seven Hells with both of you!" Robert slammed his fist on the table again, then sighed. "Very well, Jon, but on your head be it. If we cannot kill the girl and we cannot send her to the Dornish, then she will go to the Eyrie." Robert grinned mirthlessly. "Let her be your bloody problem. As for her mother, send her to Dorne with that bloody fool who claims to be a friend of her brother. And tell the damned Dornish the continued survival of Elia's daughter depends on their bending the knee. No, Ned, I'm not planning to kill the girl; stop giving me that look. But they do not know that, and do not need to know it."

"I mean to ride south to relieve Stannis and look for Lyanna, Robert; I will escort Princess Elia and the dornish fool."

"Good." Robert sighed. "And if the little dragon-spawned whelp causes me trouble when she's a woman grown by the gods you both will answer for it!" With that bit of bluster, the new king turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.

"Best if you were gone for a while in any case, Ned," Jon said softly. "We've brought him around, but he is not happy about it."

"I never would have thought he would condone the killing of children, Jon."

Jon Arryn sighed. "Remember the words of House Baratheon, Ned. 'Ours is the fury'. Robert's blood is half Targaryen and half that of the storm kings of old, and he is a hot-blooded young man besides. I do not think he could have killed the girl, when it came to it, but between us, we have removed the temptation, for now. And she will be safe enough in my care."

"I have heard Ser Jaime has not left the door of her sleeping chamber."

"It is a curious thing. A man who killed one king and failed to protect another. He clings to the protection of that child as though his very soul depends on it. Perhaps it does." Jon sighed. "Doubtless he will ask leave to be Rhaenys' personal shield, at least for a time. I will urge Robert to accept if he does, though in the end, Robert will want a more loyal man for the job. But some time away from the capital might do Ser Jaime good, and would certainly reassure the child, if she is to be separated from her mother and everyone she has ever known." Ned grunted.

"It is a thing that must be, for a time. Mayhaps, when things are calmer, Elia can join her in the Eyrie. For now, I fear the Dornish will not be satisfied unless their Princess is returned to them alive. And with her daughter in our hands, Elia will be the best advocate for peace we could ask for."

"That is cold, My Lord."

"I know." Jon sighed. "But we must end this war and bind up the wounds of the Seven Kingdoms. Gods know that woman has suffered enough trauma for a lifetime, but if I must separate her from her child to ensure peace, then so be it. Go to her, Ned. Be as gentle as you can, but in the end, you must get us peace with Dorne."

"And my sister?"

"And your sister. But be cautious about that aspect of your mission." Jon's voice was soft. "Tywin Lannister means to see his daughter as Queen, though hell should bar the way. If he is willing to kill children, do you think a northern girl is too much for him? He is rich, and his agents are everywhere." Ned shuddered.

"This is the man we must have as an ally?"

"Yes." Jon's tone was unflinching. "Go, Ned, but go carefully, and may the gods grant your sister a safe journey home."


	4. Book One: Chapter 4 (Elia)

**ELIA**

(collaborative chapter)

All Elia could think of, as the party rode through the mountains, was her son's beautiful face. _It must be some cruel joke the gods are playing on me_ , she thought, _to have this be the day I first ride through the Prince's Pass. The Stranger and his ilk must truly despise me, to leave me alive after..._ She would not finish the thought. As a little girl, she had often been told that, in contrast to the foreboding Boneway, that the road they were currently traveling was awe inspiring, serene, or majestic, and that the days she came to look upon its mountains would stay in her memories to the end of her days; but the rocks and cliffs made no impression on her now that her eyes finally were laid upon them, as the image Aegon's smile would not tear itself from her mind's eye.

Elia Martell was to meet her brother at Kingsgrave, where the Manwoodys and other Dornish forces would standing by to take charge of her safety; Ned Stark and his host would head north after that, and that would likely be the last she ever saw of him.

Initially, she had thought she might be taking a boat home from Storm's End once the wolf had lifted the siege there, but apparently there were concerns for her security. It seemed the man who was to provide her sailed escort, the usurper's brother Stannis Baratheon, had received instructions to sail immediately for Dragonstone; the Redwyne fleet, meanwhile, had already sailed for home in anticipation of the wolf host's arrival. True, the brother had offered to provide her a ship and escort from there, but it was found the man he had chosen for the task was a former smuggler; when the man she knew only as Stevron - the only person in her company she could bring herself to trust - had spoken of this as unacceptable, she felt compelled to agree. When she learned Eddard Stark was to head for the Prince's Pass (for what, she did not know), she (and the maester of Storm's End) arranged for him and his company to accompany them that way and take her to the Dornish border, where her brother and loyal men would meet her. The wolf had been reluctant at first, saying that her safety was too important to the realm to risk taking the land route; but her brother's friend managed to convince him, by combination of appealing to reason and honor, both of which this man seemed to know something of.

And so it was they found themselves here, along the Prince's Pass; Elia was regretful she had allowed herself to be cautioned against riding home with the smuggler. _If he had proven trustworthy, I would be home by now; if not, what difference would it make?_

The man her brother had sent to her was riding with them as well; he had been talking with Eddard Stark, but now it seemed he was slowing down, falling back in the party. He pulled his horse up next to Elia's and rode beside her. "Pardon Princess, but I've learned that our Stark host intends to make a stop at someplace called 'the Tower of Joy'. The wolf lord seems to think that there might be some trouble there, and has asked that you fall to the back of the party." Elia would not say anything; the fool spoke again. "Princess, I admit he was acting strange, and I told him as much, so if you want me to -"

"It makes no difference." The words seemed to come on their own accord. "Perhaps they intend to abandon us here, it makes no difference to me."

"Why Princess, what are you on about? I'm fairly sure if these men meant us harm, they'd have done so by now. I admit, I was nervous eariler, when..."

"Oh will you plese shut up!" _This stupid fool means to distract me from my son._ "Look, I know why you continue to follow me. I know that you mean to make sure that I return alive to my brothers so that you can collect your reward. Perhaps you even intend to enter my family's service. It makes no difference to me, so long as I never have to look on your face again."

The fool seemed taken aback by that. "Princess, I admit I hadn't even thought-"

"Look Stevron, you've achieved your task. I'm almost back in Dorne, alive; just... let me have a few hours to myself, if you would."

He seemed to take her words into consideration; but rather than leave, he continued to pester her. "My Princess, are you alright? I know we've been riding for a time, and..."

"Why do you persist in bothering me?" Elia was screaming at this point; she could feel tears on her face. "I was stupid to listen to you back in Storm's End. If we had just ridden with the smuggler -"

"He wasn't close to reliable, Princess. He might have held you for ransom, or killed you..."

"Good! At least then I wouldn't have to listen to your foolishness anymore!"

At first, the former fool looked offended, dumbstruck, and at a loss for words; he started to turn his horse, and it seemed he intended to take her hint and leave the princess alone to her thoughts. But then he cursed, turned his horse round again, and spoke.

"When your brother bought my freedom, I had no notion to ever pay him back. At first, this made perfect sense to me; 'what's the point of having freedom if you owe it to somebody else? What kind of freedom is that?' But after a few years of making a living in Braavos, making clever rich people laugh and making myself money, I began to wonder, here and there, why he had done it, you know? What was in it for him? Now, as I thought it, and still think it to some extent, he was probably hoping to buy my loyalty or a few nights of passion between the sheets, which of course he did not get. So, it was a loss, I figured; Oberyn Martell had done an act of kindness, and got nothing for it but a lighter purse. Good deal lighter, mind you, I wasn't cheap."

The former fool nervously laughed at what he must have thought was his own cleverness; Elia was not amused. "So is that it? You've finally learned to feel indebted to my family's kindness, and want me around to accept your gratitude?"

The eyes belonging to the man called Stevron met those of the Dornish princess. "I'm not a Westori. I don't want to swear my life to you, or your family, or anything like that. Frankly, with what I've been through the last year, I'm tempted to return to Braavos earlier than expected and take my chances there. Except..." It looked he was struggling with what to say next. "Except, now I don't know if I can bring myself to. I don't know if I can bring myself again to accept that there's no profit in basic decency and kindness. There are so many people, Princess, who are good and decent, some of who care about you a good deal, and I couldn't bring myself to just go home without you... at least recognizing that. Unless you agree that the continuation of your life is a good thing, worth protecting - if only for their sake."

For once, Elia Martell did not know what to say. Suddenly, her mind's eye turned from her dead son to her still living daughter. _Rhaenys. Rhaenys is still alive._ Her mind looked upon her brothers, Oberyn and Doran, to her nieces and nephews, the bastards and royalty alike. It turned to Ashara Dayne and her Kingsguard brother, to all the friends from the courts of Sunspear and King's Landing. Then it turned to her husband. _Rheagar? But you are dead._ He smiled. "And you are not Elia."

Elia cried. She felt an arm on her shoulder and opened her eyes again. They were approaching the Tower of Joy now. "I guess I decided not to fall back." She heard her friend laugh as his arm fell from her shoulder. "No Princess, it seems you did not."

As the party approached the tower, Elia recognized three members of the kingsguard in their path - on one side was Arthur Dayne, his hand on his hilt; on the other was Oswell Whent, on one knee and sharpening his blade; and between them stood the Lord Commander himself, his blade in hand, Ser Gerold Hightower.

Lord Eddard Stark had already dismounted his horse, and was approaching them. "I looked for you on the Trident."

"We were not there," Ser Gerold answered.

"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell.

"When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were."

"Far away," Ser Gerold said, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne."

"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them, "and the Lord Tyrell dipped his banners, and his knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."

"Our knees do not bend easily," said Ser Arthur Dayne.

"Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him."

"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Ser Oswell.

"But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee."

"Then or now," said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.

"We swore a vow," explained the Lord Commander; but just then, his eyes turned to surprise as they met her own.

By this time, Elia Martell had dismounted her horse and was approaching the men herself. "Ser Gerold" she said, as courteously as she could muster. "Your Grace" said the White Bull. Elia, by this point, had ascertained what was happening. "You are standing over guard over the Stark girl, this good lord's sister who my husband absconded with, correct? Then it is by my husband's orders that you are standing guard here, and not elsewhere, as Lord Stark and others expected?"

"Aye," Ser Arthur answered for him, "and other reasons as well."

Elia discounted that part; she was short of patience at the moment. "You are aware that my daughter lives. You can plainly see that I live." ("Aye" Ser Oswell said, though she had not meant it as a question.) "Then do I really need to command you to step down?"

The three kingsguard said nothing, but did not put down their wepons. It was at this time that all could hear the screams of a young woman coming from atop the tower; Eddard made to rush for her, but the men in white cloaks raised their swords and he drew his.

Elia's patience had come to an end; she spoke loudly and firmly to the men who were sworn to protect her family. "You have sworn vows; including obedience to the crown. If it is your intent to defy my order and fight the wolf here, very well, but have the courtesy of telling me why. On whose authority do you purport to stand between this man and his sister? My dead husband's?"

Those last three words nearly choked her; at first it looked that none of the three would deign to answer her at all. Then, the White Bull looked to Ser Oswell, who nodded and began to sheath his sword; but when he turned to Ser Arthur, the last simply simply repeated, in his softest tone, those four words: "We swore a vow."

At this, Stevron tried to intervene: "What in the name of any of the gods are you doing? If you fight, you endanger the mother of Prince Rheagar's only remaining child."

Ser Gerold cleared his throat at that. "Ser, that is not strictly speaking true." The screams came again from the tower. Lord Eddard charged forward again, only this time Ser Gerold stood out of his way, taking hold of Ser Arthur's arm as he stepped. "Let him go" he said, "it seems we still have much to talk about."

…

Elia Martell was the first of the party, after Lord Eddard, to make her way up the stairs of the Tower of Joy.

"My Lord?" He turned dead eyes to her, and Elia shivered. _Might Oberyn have looked thus, if Jaime and the fool had not saved me from the mountain?_ "My Lord, your men are concerned for you."

"And they sent you to beard the wolf in his den?"

Elia chuckled softly. "No, My Lord; I took that upon myself." She entered the room, looking at the dead girl, and the crying babe in the cradle. "None of us look the same, when the life is gone. The body does not do her spirit justice."

"That is more true of her than anyone else I have seen. She was bursting with life once."

"A moth drawn to a flame." Elia's voice was sad.

"Do you not hate her?" Ned's eyes were anguished. "The girl your husband took in place of you?"

Elia laughed harshly. "Hate her, My Lord? Should one moth hate another? You forget, I knew my husband. Courteous, charismatic, chivalrous, full of promises and prophesies, leaving us with nothing but fire and blood. No, Lord Eddard, I do not hate her; I pity her, and her babe most of all."

"You do not think it was rape, then?"

"No; that was never Rhaegar's way. Honeyed words and sweet promises, but never force. Your sister went willingly, and what young nobly born woman would not have? You did not know Rhaegar, My Lord."

"Perhaps I did not know Lyanna either." Elia patted the wolf lord awkwardly on the arm.

"These past years have shown us how little we truly knew of the ones we love. Kings and prophesies have robbed me of my son and you of your sister. My daughter lives, but it could be years before I see her again."

"And all that I have left of my sister is her child, the grandson of the man who burned my father alive." The Princess and the Lord of Winterfell exchanged a wordless glance, and an understanding passed between them in that moment.

"I will speak to Jon Arryn. Perhaps a place can be found for you in the Vale."

"And I will help you save the life of Lyanna's child." She extended her hand, and Eddard Stark took it gravely, and the bargain was made.


	5. Book One: Chapter 5 (Loyal Guardsman)

**THE LOYAL GUARDSMAN**

(written by AJ Nolte)

He clutched his sword in a death-grip as he stood outside the nursery. _I will not let them harm the babe. I will not let them harm the babe._ Daerald could hear the clomping of boots, as the invaders marched through the castle. _I will not let them harm the babe._ What a boy of barely four and ten could do to stop them, Daerald was not particularly certain, but unlike the other men of the garrison, he knew his duty. Daerald was a dragonseed, one of those common folk of Dragonstone with more than a drop of dragon blood in him. In fact, he was a dragonseed on both sides. Family legend claimed that Daemon Targaryen, the eventual consort of Queen Rhaenyra, was a forebear on his father's side, and that his mother was descended from a bye-blow of Aegon the unworthy in his youth. But though he had the look and blood of a Targaryen, Daerald's family was common as clay; making a living through fishing and digging up dragonglass on Dragonstone's barren coast. He still remembered his family's pride when he had been made a guardsman the year before. And now, he stood alone between the usurper's men and the infant princess.

"The babe is this way, M'Lord." Daerald recognized the voice of Robar, one of the guard sergeants. Moments later, he saw the man, followed by a hard, dark-haired knight and a lean young man with hard dark blue eyes.

"I... I won't let you pass." Daerald cursed the weakness in his voice, and clutched his sword hilt all the tighter.

"Put the blade down, boy," Robar barked. "Some royal brat ain't worth your life." Daerald wondered if knowing that the men felt that way had been what convinced Ser Willem Dary to run away with Prince Viserys while Queen Rhaella was still with child. Or mayhaps the Queen had ordered him to flee, and put the last Targaryen prince beyond the Usurper's reach. There were rumors of vast sums of Lannister gold on offer to any man who could provide information about the prince's whereabouts, but Viserys, at least, was beyond harm. Daenerys, though, had only one scared boy to protect her.

"I'm a dragonseed, and I swore an oath. I won't let you pass!" Daerald's voice was at least a bit steadier, and he flourished the sword experimentally. He had been accounted fair when put through his paces by the garrison's trainers, but he also knew that training to fight a man, and fighting three men who were more experienced than he was, were two very different things.

"Do you know who I am, lad?" The blue-eyed man asked in a stern voice.

"No, m'Lord."

"I'm Stannis Baratheon, brother to Robert Baratheon, the one true king of the Seven Kingdoms." Part of Daerald wanted to rail at the man, and call him a traitor and his brother a usurper. The truth was, though, Daerald didn't much care who ruled the Seven Kingdoms. The dragons were kin, of a sort, and dragonseeds all knew that the dragons belonged to them in a way that was special, and hang what the rest of the Seven Kingdoms thought about it. He wasn't protecting the babe because of some fancy iron chair; he was protecting her because the Targaryens belonged to the dragonseeds, and the Dragonseeds to the Targaryens, and in some way he did not truly comprehend, she had become his dragon.

"I swore an oath to the dragons' m'Lord; I won't be forsworn."

"I respect men who keep their oaths, lad." Stannis didn't glance at the treacherous sergeant, but to Daerald's way of thinking, he might as well have done. "My duty is to gain control of Dragonstone for my brother, and take the mad king's last child into custody."

"You mean... you won't kill her?"

The blue-eyed man ground his teeth. "I do not kill children." He growled. Daerald reckoned it was a fairly frightening growl at that.

"They said Rhaegar's son had his head smashed in; I feared..."

"Whatever other men may do, or may have done, I will not kill children. What is your name, boy?"

"Daerald, M'Lord."

"Very well, Daerald. I give you my word I mean your charge no harm. I simply wish to make sure she is here, and safe, and has not been taken from Dragonstone as her brother was. Will you let me pass for this purpose, or must I have Ser Richard," he gave a nod to the dark-haired knight "kill you instead."

"I... I'll let you pass, M'Lord, but only you, and I'll go with you."

"Very well."

"And I get to keep my sword." Daerald thought he could hear the man's teeth grinding.

"You are a stubborn young fool."

"Yes, M'Lord." Daerald couldn't very well deny that, and mother told him from a young age lying to lords was a foolish thing to do. He heard something come from Stannis that might have been a laugh in another man.

"Very well, Daerald, keep your sword."

...

Daenerys Targaryen slept peacefully, sucking her thumb, and oblivious to the world around her. Stannis looked down on the girl impassively.

"She has the Targaryen look. Tell me, boy, is there any way some loyal, clever dragonseed like yourself might have exchanged this babe for another?"

"No, M'Lord, I don't rightly think so." Daerald scratched his head. "Nobody's come in save the girl's wet nurse, since her mother died a fortnight gone, and she's never taken anything out of this room or brought anything in as could conceal a babe."

"Then this is the last child of Aerys and Rhaella. Have they named the babe?"

"Daenerys, M'Lord," Daerald said softly. "Her mother, gods give her rest, named her Daenerys before she passed."

"Daenerys." Stannis sighed. "A Daenerys married a Prince of Dorne; did you know that, boy?"

"Aye, M'Lord; that was Daeron the Good's sister, was it not?"

"You know a great deal of Targaryen history for a guardsman."

"We dragonseeds are proud of our dragons, M'Lord."

"And what of the mad king?"

"Aye, not every dragon is someone as you'd like to have over for dinner, MLord, if you take my meaning."

Stannis made that noise that was not quite a laugh again. "Mayhaps this Daenerys will bring another kind of peace. If Jon Arryn and Ned Stark convinced my brother not to kill Rhaenys, I cannot be faulted for letting this babe live." He ground his teeth again. "I have done all Robert asked of me; held Storm's End for him, won him Dragonstone, and kept the last Targaryen from escaping. But I will not kill children."

Stannis turned to Daerald. "No one enters this room, boy, save myself and the wet nurse, until I tell you otherwise. _No_ one, do you understand me?"

"Yes, M'Lord." Daerald was not sure how he had decided to follow the man's orders, but he had.

"I will send Ser Richard to help you guard the door; he is a good knight and true, and has no love for House Lannister. Between you, I think you can prevent any mischief from befalling the girl."

"I'll die first, M'Lord."

Stannis clapped him on the shoulder. "Good lad. Now, I have a message to send to my brother in King's Landing. In the meantime, guard the babe with your life."

"I will, M'Lord, as long as she has need of me." Stannis gave Daerald a respectful nod, then left the room, dragging the dark-haired knight and Sergeant Robar in his wake. Daerald let out a long sigh, as he closed the door behind him. He had expected to die in defense of his charge, accomplishing nothing. Instead the usurper's brother personally commissioned him to protect the infant Princess with his life. Daerald vowed to himself that, come what may, he would prove worthy of the trust Lord Stannis had placed in him.


	6. Book One: Chapter 6 (The Stag's Hand)

**THE STAG'S HAND**

Jon Arryn furrowed his brow upon hearing that gods damned tune. "Seven hells Ser Vardis, it's not even that catchy. The meter is nonsense, the melody is haphhazard, and it annoys King Robert and myself. Why, then, does it always insist on finding its way into your throat?"

His guard had frozen, visible fear overtaking him as he realized what he had done... again. "Oh m-my apologies, Lord. I did not realize..."

Jon could never stand his own men being afraid of him; he raised his hand. "Calm yourself, I am not angry with you, just..." He would have said "annoyed", but the truth was he was more perplexed than anything as to why this clumsy tune could so defy his authority. It had started shortly after Robert's forces had taken King's Landing; the smallfolk in the city had heard of how the Mad King had died, and how the wife and daughter of the Crown Prince had been saved, and it seems one of them, at least, had thought to start singing about it.

 _Kingslayer and Dragon's Fool,_

 _They put an end to the Mad King's rule,_

 _And saved our Queens from giant cruel._

 _Kingslayer and Dragon's Fool!_

The rest of it was no better than the chorus. It wasn't the quality of the song that had bothered the King's Hand, though, it was the choice of words - " _our queens_ ". Whenever the beggers of Flea Bottom, or whores of Street of Silk, or the knights of the Red Keep sang, they sang, knowingly or not, of Rhenys and Elia as "queens". Oh sure, more like than not it was the bad writing, "queens" fitting the poor meter far better than "princesses", and Jon knew full well that most who sang the song meant little by it, except perhaps to praise a man of the Kingsguard, as countless other songs did... but still, he couldn't help but worry.

And he had enough to worry about as it was. To start, there was the issue of the King's brother, specifically his pending marriage. Mere weeks ago, Jon had preliminary plans for tightening alliances between the Houses through marriage of which Stannis was to be an important part. Initially, he had thought the middle Baratheon could support his brother by marrying the former Crown Princess, further ensuring the loyalty of the Martells, or placating their newest ally Tywin Lannister by marrying his daughter. Robert himself, Jon knew, would take no one but Ned's sister for his wife, else he would be the perfect solution to either predicament. ( _Although_ , he thought, _even aside from that, the Martell girl is about as far from Robert's tastes as a woman could be._ )

But that was before Dragonstone. Now that his brother had decided to take a Targaryen girl to raise like his own (and to marry quickly in aid to such an end), these plans, Jon knew, were for naught; any woman who played a role in raising a daughter of the Mad King would have to be of indisputable loyalty to the new king; that meant the Martells were right out, and Jon was sure that giving the Lannisters a dragon with no crown was not likely to end well. When Jon had heard that Stannis was exchanging letters with a woman who happened to be both a daughter to a loyal Baratheon bannerman and a former handmaiden to Elia Martell, he considered the match as good as could be expected. ( _Or am I misrembering?_ , Jon thought; he recalled that the woman had been taken captive by the Kingswood Brotherhood only a couple years prior, as they had also attacked the Princess; perhaps that had confused him? _No matter, it's still a good match._ )

Since it was the groom's intent the marriage take place as soon as possible, and since King Robert would naturally be attending - and since he insisted on bringing his beloved Hand with him - Jon Arryn was taking measures to make sure the city and court would be in good hands while he and the king were away. It was in this position that his master of arms found him, humming that bloody tune.

"It's just" Ser Vardis explained "you hear the song sung so often, down in the city streets, it gets in your head no matter what you think of it. I care for it little myself, but still..."

Jon Arryn waved his hand again. "Yes yes, I know what you mean. Was there something you wanted?"

"Begging your pardon Ser, you said you wished to know when Lord Eddard was arriving."

"Ah yes, thank you." He had indeed asked for that. When word had reached him last night that his former ward was approaching King's Landing from the south, Jon had been relieved. He had been concerned for a short time that Eddard had gone straight home to Winterfell without even informing the King; the Lannisters had heard reports from the Banefort that a ship bearing the lizard lion sigil of House Reed had been spotted by Ironborn not a week prior, sailing into the Saltspear. _If Howland Reed has gone home to Moat Cailin, more like than not his fellow Northern host are with him, including Ned_ , he had thought, somberly.

But it seems Lord Banefort was mistaken, because now the Lord Stark was confirmed to be here in King's Landing, on his way to the Red Keep. _Or more likely in the Keep by now_ , Jon thought, as he made his way down the Tower of the Hand to the Small Hall. Still, he managed to arrive before his guests.

Ned Stark came first into the great room. He looked well traveled, with his beard untrimmed and his clothes well worn, but he was still the boy Jon had known for years. With him were some of his men, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, and Ser Mark Ryswell. Jon threw open his arms and cried out to the man he thought of as a son. "Ned! It has been too long. Come over here, and-"

It was then that Jon noticed the other man with them, one of the last men he had ever thought to see again, but standing there nonetheless, wearing his white cloak as prominently as ever. At first he was at a loss for words; "Ser Gerold Hightower" the Hand finally said. "What brings you back to King's Landing?" It was about the most polite way that Jon could think to put the question.

"Lord Hand, two of my sworn brothers have been kept in service for the new king; it is my intention to do the same." Lord Arryn was taken aback by how forward Ser Gerold was in this declaration; Sers Barristan and Jaime had been kept, it was true, but first they had sworn new oaths to their new king.

"Yes, two have been kept in his service. And two more have died doing their duty to the old king. And you are here now. But tell me, Ser Gerold, what of the other two?"

The White Bull gave no delay in answering: "Ser Arthur Dayne has declared that he will go North to take the black. As to Ser Oswell... I understand he has fled to Essos, though to what destination I know not."

The King's Hand eyed Ser Gerold and then Eddard with fair suspicion. "If a former member of the kingsguard is to join the Night's Watch, then no doubt we will soon be hearing news of it across the Seven Kingdoms. Castle Black would not be quiet about such a recruit."

And Ned did not disappoint, responding calm and confident that they no doubt would.

That was enough to satisfy him for the moment - the question of Gerold Hightower could wait - and Jon allowed himself to smile, which Ned returned, and the two resumed embracing. "So Ned, how did you find your sister? Will she be joining us soon?"

The smile fell from Eddard's lips at that. "My Lord..." he began. This was ominous; Ned seldom ever referred to Jon so formally, and only then on dark occassions. And surely enough, he saw sadness flow into his ward's eyes, like dry tears. "My Lord, Lyanna Stark... my sister, she's dead." At this moment, Jon could feel the silence in the room; he wondered, years later, if he had felt anything else. He knew he should say something; " _I am so sorry"_ came to mind, but his mouth would not move at his command, hanging there dumbly. Ned continued, "It was my intention, on returning here, to tell the King... among other things."

"Of course, of course, Robert should know." Strange, those words came easily enough. Ned nodded and began to turn, and Jon's arm must have had a mind of its own in that moment, because it reached out and grabbed the mourning Lord of Winterfell. Jon looked at him a moment, and embraced him again. They must have remained this way, in each other's arms, for some time, because before either let the other go, Jon heard Robert enter the Small Hall, laughing.

"So there he is! There's the son of whore, Ned Stark, finally come to see his friend and brother! We were beginning to think you had sulked home, and-"

This time, Jon spoke; those two words, two awful, awful words. Once again, a smile fell; once again, there was silence. Though years later, Jon thought he might have remembered something else right then, possibly a dampness on the cheek.

…

The hall was empty now, aside from the three men, aside from Jon Arryn and the two boys who he helped raise at the Eyrie. One of them was now Lord of Winterfell, the other King of the Andals and the First Men and Protector of the Realm. The latter was seated some distance from the other two, tending to his bloody hand, damaged as it was from punching the stone walls.

The death of his bride to be had been bad enough; but that she had died bearing the son of the man who abducted her was worse. And, to Robert, worse still was that his most loyal friend had sent this babe to Winterfell, with the intention of raising him... because she had asked him. Because the woman Robert loved in turn loved the babe who killed her in being born. Because of Rheagar.

"He still won", Robert eventually managed to say. "I defeated his armies, I killed him, I took his crown... and he still won. He's dead, and he still took everything from me, and got everything he wanted."

"Not everything", Ned softly corrected him. Robert gave him a furious glance, but he continued, "Ser Gerold told me that Rheagar had wanted a daughter. Something to do a prophecy about three heads, or..." he trailed off at that. "I don't understand it."

"What's to understand?" Robert replied, "The man was a fucking lunatic." At that Robert managed something like a grin, and gave something like a laugh, though neither of those things did anything to quell his tears. "Seven hells Ned, can you imagine him King now? He kidnapped and raped my bride because of a _prophecy_ , could you..." Robert's laughter died with that, and his face went solemn again. Once more the room was quiet.

Ned had looked like he wanted to say something to Robert, as if to correct him on something or other, but decided against it. Jon couldn't help but think that, until recently, everybody had been picturing Rheagar as King, many or most thinking him likely to be better than his father, the man who would save the dynasty. _If they had only known..._

Jon didn't know how long the three had sat there before they heard a knock, and saw Grand Maester Pycelle enter. "Humbly begging pardon, your Grace, but I had heard you had... injured yourself?" For a moment, Robert simply stared at the intruder; then he looked down at his right fist, and the gaping, bleeding wounds it housed. "Your Grace, shall I..."

"Very well, do it quickly." But as he approached the King, Robert raised his bloody hand; on his face, Jon thought he saw some odd inspiration. "Actually no; I've changed my mind. Maester, bring me a parchment and some ink. I would write something."

Pycelle had clearly not expected this answer, as Jon certainly didn't, but he nodded and scurried out of the room. After some time, he returned with the parchment, ink, and quills; the King took them as quick as one dared, and began scribbling. When he was done, he rolled the paper, and turned to the Lord of Winterfell.

"Ned, I wouldn't care if I had to fight my way past the Neck, across your snows, and burn Winterfell to the ground; the only reason, the _only_ reason I'm not going to kill this, this..."; he swallowed. _He means to say "dragonspawn"_ , Jon thought; that was the only time he ever saw that kind of rage in Robert's eyes. "The _only_ reason is because of her." The two near brothers were looking right into each other's eyes. "It's only out of my love for her that I'll let the boy live. To that end..." he handed over the parchment, "I've decided to give him the name of 'Stark'. Because if you do raise him, I want him raised as _her_ son, and not _his_ bastard."

Eddard solemnly nodded and took the parchment. And for the fourth time in hours, Jon could feel the silence. This time, he gave in to his urge to speak: "Has he been given a name yet?"

"If it pleases my Lord..." - _once again, he is being formal with me_ \- "I had thought to give him yours."

Lord Arryn couldn't help but smile at that; he thought he saw Robert's lips turn as well, approving as they spoke: "Jon Stark it is then. And may he honor the name."


	7. Book One: Chapter 7 (Elia)

**ELIA**

(written by AJ Nolte)

She wept into her brother's shoulder, as the last of her escort withdrew quietly. Oberyn stroked her hair, whispering soothing words. Drying her eyes, Elia embraced Doran as well, and if her greeting was more reserved than that which she had given Oberyn, the difference was very slight indeed.

"We feared the worst," Doran told her as he pulled out a chair into which she sank gratefully. "The first rumors claimed you and the children were all dead."

"I live, as does Rhaenys, but the reality of the sack was bad enough." Elia shivered with reaction. For the first time since that horrible day in King's Landing, she felt truly safe. The closest she had come before that point was in the presence of Ned Stark, of all people.

"Where is Rhaenys?" Doran asked.

"At the Eyrie by now. Robert would have preferred to see her slain, but Stark and Arryn prevented him."

"We will punish the usurper for his presumption!" Oberyn's face flushed with rage. "I am prepared to raise Dorne for Viserys..."

"Don't be a fool!" Elia's tone was uncharacteristically harsh. "Gods, Oberyn, do you wish to ensure the death of my daughter?"

Doran nodded. "It is as I thought, then? Rhaenys' preservation is dependent on our good behavior?"

"That was never explicitly stated, but it did not need to be. I have been allowed to return to Dorne for one reason: to ensure peace."

"Peace! How can we speak of peace when you have been raped and your son murdered!"

Elia gave Oberyn a fond but exasperated look. "We speak of peace because we must. Believe me, Oberyn, I wish vengeance on the murderer of my son more than you can possibly imagine! But it will take time, and planning. For now," she turned to Doran, "we must prove the most loyal vassals the iron throne could possibly desire."

"I agree. But tell me, Elia, what do you have in mind? By the look in your eye, I surmise you do have a plan?"

"The beginnings of one, at least." Elia stood and faced her brothers. "Three men are responsible for my rape and my son's death. The first is Aerys Targaryen, who is beyond our vengeance." Doran and Oberyn nodded. "The second is King Robert, who acquiesced to the slaughter. But the third, is the man who ordered the deed done, whatever protestations he may have made to the contrary."

"Tywin Lannister," Oberyn said with venom.

Elia nodded. "His crimes are the greatest, and so his punishment must be the surest."

"Dorne cannot take on the might of Casterly Rock alone," Doran mused.

"Indeed not." Elia smiled at her brother. "But when the time comes, we will not need to act alone. Already the lion grows ever prouder. His daughter will be queen, and Lannister influence will grow. And as it does, Tywin will continue to make enemies, as he has always done. Some among the allies of the king already regard the lion with disfavor."

"Stark?" asked Doran.

"The Lord of Winterfell first and foremost, but there will be others."

"And will animosity to Tywin Lannister lead Stark to betray his friend the king and opt for a dragon restoration?" Oberyn sounded doubtful.

"Animosity?" Elia laughed. "I am hardly counting on animosity. No, Ned Stark has a more profound motive to side with us against the Lannisters, and the king if need be, when the time is right. A reason we discovered at a place called the Tower of Joy." And so Elia told them what she and Ned Stark had found, and what she planned to do with the knowledge.

"Seven hells, sister, that is ambitious."

"But not impossible," Doran told his brother, as he gave Elia a speculative glance. "If Elia can play her part?"

"Unbent, unbowed, unbroken!" Elia said fiercely. The three Martell siblings looked at one another, and smiled.


	8. Book One: Chapter 8 (Carolei)

**CAROLEI**

(written by AJ Nolte)

Her husband to be was not as handsome as she might have wished, but not as unattractive as he might have been. Ser Geremy Frey was tall and well-muscled, taking after his Crakehal kin in his build. Sadly, his face had the typical stotish cast of his father's family. Still, he smiled at her, and Carolei returned the smile a bit shyly. She knew she was no great beauty herself. Her hair looked more like straw than the queen's spun-gold, her face was long and, as her cousin Ser Morton said, "a bit horsy", and her figure was perhaps more athletic than was fashionable. _But he smiled at you; that is a start, at least._ She made her best curtsy.

"I am pleased to meet you, Ser Geremy."

"And I you, Lady Carolei."

"Ah, Ser Geremy!" They both turned at the sound of that boisterous voice, and Carolei hid a sigh. Ser Jaime Lannister was... beautiful. She had no other word to describe him. For the first two months of her time as lady in waiting to Lysa Arryn, the new Lady of the Vale, Carolei had been foolishly besotted with the man, and though she was past such foolish notions now, his sheer physical attractiveness still struck her at times. And it was not a favorable contrast for her husband, she thought wistfully as the two men clasped forearms.

"I squired with Sumner Crakehal; you're, what, Uncle? Cousin?"

"Uncle for sorts, Ser Jaime; there are so many Crakehals it is often difficult to keep the exact relationship straight, and that is still easier than keeping track of my Frey kin."

"I can relate to that, speaking as a Lannister. A Lannister of Casterly Rock mind; it's even more of a bloody hassle with the Lannisters of Lannisport. Add in all the Lanns Lannies and so forth and I'm inevitably lost." Geremy and Carolei both chuckled.

"Welcome to the Eyrie, Ser Geremy." Lady Lysa Arryn approached, curtsying to the knight, who bowed in return.

"And this," Jaime said with a grin, "is our little dragon!" He caught Rhaenys, who had been running toward them, and scooped her up into the air to a squeal of delight from the girl and a frown from Lysa.

"Rhaenys, say hello to Ser Geremy. He is to marry Carolei."

"No!" Rhaenys squirmed free of Jaime's grip and stamped her foot. "Don't want Carolei to leave!"

"I shan't be leaving soon, little one." Carolei bent to put her face on a level with Rhaenys. While she was technically in Lysa Arryn's service, it had become clear that her true function was to act as a surrogate mother to Rhaenys. Lysa was still nearly a child herself, and, in Carolei's opinion, did not have many maternal instincts."

"No! Not leave ever!" Rhaenys burst into tears, and ran off.

"I must go after my charge," Jaime said with a bemused glance. "We'll speak later, Ser Geremy." Jaime turned to leave, and Lysa soon followed making her excuses, and leaving Carolei alone with her fiancee.

"The girl seems quite attached to you."

Carolei sighed. "She has lost everyone she's ever known, Ser Geremy; little wonder she should cling to someone."

"A difficult thing for a child to be alone. I do not truly understand it, I confess; no Frey ever suffered from a lack of family." Carolei laughed involuntarily, and tried not to wince. She hated her laugh... but Geremy smiled again. Mayhaps things would be alright after all.

...

They had a feast that night to welcome Ser Geremy, though it was a modest affair. After all, he was no great lord to be impressed by the wealth of the Eyrie. Geremy was polite, attentive, and while he was hardly the most interesting conversationalist, Carolei found him pleasant, at the least. And his stories about the crossing, and the countless family members he had, were often quite entertaining. As the first course was removed, a courier was ushered into the great hall, with a message for Ser Jaime.

"A letter from the Queen?" Carolei heard Lysa ask.

"So it would seem." Jaime opened the letter, read it, then pounded his fist on the table.

"The others take it! Why will she not understand?"

Lysa laid a hand on his arm. "She entreats you to return to King's Landing?"

"Again. I have told her again and again that I will return to King's Landing when Elia arrives, and not before. Besides, the king has not decided which kingsguard he can trust enough to take my place. He will not have any of the loyalist kingsguard protecting one of the 'dragonspawn', and in fact, I think he would prefer not to have any kingsguard as Rhaenys' sworn shield, but for the fact that the Dornish insist upon it. Until that is resolved, I must remain here, and Cersei knows it, but she feels I have not been forceful enough in demanding that a solution be found. As if it is the place of a kingsguard to demand anything of the king."

"At least she writes to you," Lysa said softly. Jaime nodded, and took a pull from his wine cup. Carolei noticed that Lysa's cup was empty as well, and moved to refill it. The younger woman gave her a distracted nod of thanks. As the feast went on, Carolei's eyes were continually drawn to the Lady of the Vale and the Knight of the Kingsguard. They were often in close conversation, and the wine seemed to be flowing freely for both of them. As the night wound to a close, she too found she had been in her cups, as had her husband. So when he kissed her at the door to her chamber, she returned it clumsily but ardently, and made bold enough to tell him that she looked forward to their wedding night, a sentiment with which he heartily agreed. Carolei felt pleasantly fuzzy as she watched him walk away. Not the most handsome man, mayhaps, but she liked his smile.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard a soft cry from the nearby room of her mistress. As steadily as she could, Carolei walked to Lysa's chamber. She entered the room quietly, then stopped as she saw two shadows entwined on the bed, and heard another soft cry that she recognized as a sound of pleasure. In the dim light of the candle, she saw the red hair of her lady, and the bright golden hair of Ser Jaime Lannister. As she left the chamber, thoughts whirling, she heard another soft cry coming from the throat of the Lady of the Vale.

...

When she woke the next morning, she thought it a dream, but as the days past, she began to notice secret looks between the Kingsguard Knight and the Lady of the Vale, though she never again heard the sounds of pleasure coming from the lady's chambers. She never spoke of what she suspected. Not when Lysa announced, quite suddenly, that she meant to depart for King's Landing the next morning, and not when she returned several weeks later; not when she announced her pregnancy, a happy event which, she told anyone who would listen, had occurred during her visit to her husband in the capital; and not when Lady Elia arrived with Ser Roland Storm, the bastard of Nightsong, whom Robert had chosen to be Rhaenys' new shield. She kept her silence when Jaime departed for King's Landing. Only once did she hint that she knew. It was after Rowena was born. Carolei's own wedding was fast approaching, and she began to fear for her future, and that of her husband. And so, out of this fear, she spoke once, as she watched Lysa gently stroke the babe's downy red hair.

"She has lovely eyes, My Lady; lovely green eyes." Lysa looked up, meeting Carolei's eyes, and Carolei saw that Lysa understood, now, that Carolei knew.

"Your husband to be is a valiant knight, Lady Carolei. I'm sure a place can be found for him in my household. Besides, the little dragon is fond of you, as is her mother, who will be my guest here for many years. Would that suit you?"

"Yes, My Lady, very much."

"Good. Loyalty such as yours should be rewarded, just as disloyalty must be punished. You are loyal to me, are you not, Lady Carolei?"

"I'll never tell, My Lady," she said softly, "I swear by the gods."

"You'll never tell what?"

"Nothing, My Lady."

Lysa nodded. "I would call my daughter's eyes a bluish green. It is a color that has been seen in my family before."

"Aye, My Lady; bluish green they are." Lysa nodded, smiled ever so slightly at Carolei, and left the room.

Ser Geremy Frey became a knight in service to Lady Lysa. He and Carolei had two children; a boy named Sandor and a girl named Lysa. If their marriage was not a thing of great passion, they were comfortable with one another. And Carolei never spoke of what she knew again.


	9. Book One: Chapter 9 (Dragon's Fool)

**THE DRAGONS FOOL**

It had been many lifetimes since he had last seen the city of Lys. Back then his name was Sharys, though that was simply what his master called him. The boy Sharys had always promised himself that he would be a free man, who would chose where he worked and what his name would be. When his freedom came, that boy had chosen Braavos for his home, and Brusco for his name.

Now a man came back to the city of his oppression, but once again with a name he did not choose. It had been years since Brusco had been his name; after practically a decade of living in Westeros, he had come to think of his name from Braavos in much the same way he had thought of his name in Lys, as an old identity to be put aside for his new life. After all, Brusco of Braavos was a man with enemies, who would be killed on sight should he show his face in the streets of his neighbors, friends, and those who made him; by contrast, Stevron had friends in high places all across the Seven Kingdoms. True, Stevron had a rough start, but then so did Brusco. And true, he was called "Dragon's Fool", even then most often in songs praising him; still, it was no worse, he thought, than being thought of as "Brusco the Burlesque".

But that was soon to change. Stevron had heard news of the city he would still think of as home - the mark on his life had been rescinded, with the men who had put forward the money to see him dead having fallen on hard times; the word was that Brusco could once again walk the streets of Braavos. Brusco's manse, his wealth deposits in the Iron Bank, even his old mummur's company, all were still there, just waiting to be claimed.

He had been in Lannisport when he heard the news; though Stevron wasn't particularly close with the Lannister family, aside from the one in the white cloak, he was interested in what prospects for work and wealth the continent's third largest city might have. Word was that the months following the rebellion of the Iron Isles were boom times for the city. (Not that he needed the work; as Brusco had in Braavos, Stevron had managed to secure a small fortune for himself in mummur's work and smart investments.) He found in the city's harbor ships from all over Westeros and Essos, even a fair share of traders from the isles the city had only recently been at war with. (Although, Brusco considered, they might have been there on account of the new ward at Casterly Rock, the only son of the rebel Greyjoy lord to survive the war.) Despite this, he found some difficulty finding a ship that would be sailing straight for Braavos, and so made due with a ship headed for Lys.

From there, he thought he might sail to one of the places in Westeros where he had frineds in high places, one last time. The Martells in Sunspear he had known enough of the past decade, but he thought he might take passage to King's Landing; the last time he was in the city had been during the wedding for the King's brother (his second marriage, as he recalled), and he had gotten the taste of celebrity he missed so much from his mummur days, especially when he strolled through the city in the company of Ser Jaime Lannister, to cries of "Kingslayer and Dragon's Fool". He had even dined in the hall of the Red Keep, in the same great hall as King Robert and his family, laying eyes on them from afar. _I wonder how big the crown prince has gotten_ , he mused; _he would be three or four years old by now._

But all that would have to wait. For now, Brusco had to find a ship, and that meant talking to ship captains... only he could not find them. He had looked in four different port taverns, and found them all nearly empty; it was only now, looking around the fifth tavern, that he thought to ask the barkeep, who was doing little but wiping a goblet with a dirty rag, where everybody was. "Likely they're in the city, trying to get a glance of the king."

"King Robert?" Brusco was confused; what would _he_ be doing in one of the free cities?

"No, the other one, Viserys, the Targaryen who got chased out."

This was a surprise. "I thought he was in hiding. Nobody in Westeros knew where he was, last I heard of him."

"He's come out of hiding it seems. Been traveling about with one of his exiled lords these past few months. Now he's in Lys, staying with one of the rich folk. Word is people are crowding around the manse, trying to get a glimpse of him; I even heard this would be king comes out on occasion and waves to the crowds, talking to us like royal fucking subjects." The barman laughed at that.

"He's not even a man yet, is he? He'd be, what, four and ten...?"

"Waving at people's not so hard though, is it? Anyway, you won't see me in those crowds; I've got better things to do with my time", said the barkeep, who was still only wiping the rusty goblet.

But Stevron knew that he would be there. He still recalled this exile's brother, who had played a role in saving his life once; that was worth a meeting at least, or an attempted one.

When Brusco arrived at the manse, he saw some men gathering outside the gates, though at first he was surprised as it was not of a size he quite expected. He only had to look across the street, and see the tavern there doing booming business to know where all those captains were. Stevron made his way to the gate.

"Oh, and another one? Who is it this time trying to buy his way into the feast?"

"Nobody buying his way. I just happened to hear there was a boy by the name of Viserys in there; it so happens I knew his brother, though I was better aquainted with his sister by marriage. He might even remember me, though it was nine years past. My name is Stevron. Could you ask if the boy wants to see me?" Since Brusco knew how things were done in this city, he handed the man a gold dragon.

"The boy?" The guard laughed at that. But since he had been properly bribed, he went to pass on Stevron's message. Minutes later, another better dressed man returned and invited Brusco into the manse.

…

Viserys spat, "You would put me on a mummur's stage?" He could afford to be this way, with only two other men in the room.

"On our stage? No. The mummurs have their stages, and the kings have theirs; but that doesn't mean they do not utilize similar skills." The boy claiming to be king was responding to Stevron's invitation to live with him much as he had predicted he would. The man called "dragon's fool" remembered the Targaryen king well enough to know that his young son was as like to spit in the face of a gift giver as thank him.

But he was curious how this Jon Connington would respond. Stevron had memories of this man, back when he wore motley, as one who was briefly the King's Hand; he also recalled him to be more Rheagar's man than Aerys', which made his service to Viserys seem a little odd. He had since heard of how he escaped to Essos and was drinking himself to ruin. Brusco learned that Jon had tried to enter the service of the Martells, but failed, and even heard rumors of the babe Aegon surviving.

This had gotten Brusco's attention. He asked where Connington had heard this, and why he would think to believe such a mad notion. Jon's response: "I had heard it from a number of men, all of who claimed that Varys, the Spider in King's Landing, had been the one to smuggle out the babe." _That means_ , Stevron concluded, _that the rumor could only have started with the eunuch._ He had not forgotten the months he spent in King's Landing tortured by the Mad King, and he did not forget that it all happened because a word from the so called Master of Whispers. More than anything, it was the knowledge that this fat bald former man was up to something, and the desire to interfere with his plans, that made Stevron offer the beggar king his hospitality.

But there was still plenty about these two that made Brusco unsure. Take the fate of the other exile, Willem Darry. It seems after smuggling the prince off Dragonstone, he took his charge somewhere the boy thought to be Braavos, though it was clear from the boy's description that he had never seen Brusco's home city. Whereever they had gone, they had been living fairly simply for the past nine years, until only months ago when Darry passed away due to a sickness. His protector dead, Viserys decided to travel, to sail across the free cities on the good will of sailors and wealthy patrons, all in the hopes of raising an army and retaking his throne. How he had got such a mad notion in his head, Brusco could not say, but it wasn't long before Jon Connington came to him and offered his service.

And it was Connington who spoke now. "We should accept this offer, your Grace."

The beggar king scoffed. "Would you have the King of the Andals hold court with mummurs, fools, and merchants?"

"The King is doing these things already. And when he had limited resources, then I would have your Grace stay in one place, where our allies can come to us, rahter than chasing down hospitality city to city."

The boy continued to bluster, but eventually consented. Later, in the halls of the manse, Brusco found himself alone with the Lord of Griffith's Roost, who said something that caught the man of many names completely off guard.

"I'm glad the Martells sent you; I was starting to fear this boy was too much for me."

At first no words came to him. _He thinks I still work for the Martells? Does this mean..._ He had to be certain. "So you are here on Elia's behest?"

"Her family, yes. For so many years, I thought my life was over. I wanted nothing more than to serve the true queen, Rheagar's daughter, but her family did not know how to make use of an exile like myself. Only months ago did I hear from them again..." Jon stopped, as the two heard another approaching.

Viserys turned a corner, and approached his men. "Lord Connington, I need you to come back to the feast. These Lysene merchants are wearing me down with their promises and common conversation."

"Of course your Grace. Lord Stevron..." And the two made their way back to the feast. Watching his two future guests walked away brought a smile to Brusco's face. His return home would be even grander than expected.


	10. Book One: Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

"We should start back," Gared urged as the woods began to grow dark around them. "The wildlings are dead."

"Are we really still talking about this?" Merret groaned.

If Gared even noticed the irritation in that tone, he did not show it; he was an old man, past fifty, and he had seen the lordlings come and go. "Dead is dead," he said. "We have no business with the dead."

"Oh they're dead are they?" Frey snapped. "What proof have we?"

"Will saw them," Gared said. "If he says they are dead, that's proof enough for me."

Will had known they would drag him into the quarrel sooner or later. He wished it had been later rather than sooner. "My mother told me that dead men sing no songs," he put in.

Their fat commander scoffed at that. "Yes, people say that; never made sense to me. Maybe it's because my father always resembled a corpse, and he never did learn how to stop talking." His chilly laugh echoed, too loud in the twilight forest. "Anyways, it matters little; there are things to be learned even from the dead."

Will could see the tightness around Gared's mouth, the barely suppressed anger in his eyes under the thick black hood of his cloak. Gared had spent forty years in the Night's Watch, man and boy, and he was not accustomed to being made light of. Yet it was more than that. Under the wounded pride, Will could sense something else in the older man. You could taste it; a nervous tension that came perilous close to fear.

Will shared his unease. He had been four years on the Wall. The first time he had been sent beyond, all the old stories had come rushing back, and his bowels had turned to water. He had laughed about it afterward. He was a veteran of a hundred rangings by now, and the endless dark wilderness that the southron called the haunted forest had no more terrors for him.

Until tonight. Something was different tonight. There was an edge to this darkness that made his hackles rise. Nine days they had been riding, north and northwest and then north again, farther and farther from the Wall, hard on the track of a band of wildling raiders. Each day had been worse than the day that had come before it. Today was the worst of all. A cold wind was blowing out of the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things. All day, Will had felt as though something were watching him, something cold and implacable that loved him not. Gared had felt it too. Will wanted nothing so much as to ride hellbent for the safety of the Wall, but that was not a feeling to share with your commander.

Even a commander like Merret Frey - the soft, fleshy man was less than a year in the Night's Watch, but from a large noble family in the Riverlands who had already sent two sons to join the Night's Watch, both of who had already managed to rise in the ranks. Perhaps the Lord Frey, whoever he was, thought his older descendants on the Wall would look after the interests of the others, but Will and the men of Castle Black knew better. At Castle Black, the Freys had a reputation for squabbling among themselves; it was joked by men like Gared that Merret must think of "brother" like an insult, or an invitation to be stabbed in the back.

 _It is hard to take orders from a man you laughed at in your cups_ , Will reflected as he sat shivering atop his garron. Gared must have felt the same.

"Dayne said as we should track them, and we did," Gared said. "They're dead. They shan't trouble us no more. There's hard riding before us. I don't like this weather. If it snows, we could be a fortnight getting back, and snow's the best we can hope for. Ever seen an ice storm, my lord?" The weasel faced commander responded with a "meh" and a dismissive wave of his hand.

Somewhere off in the wood a wolf howled. Will pulled his garron over beneath an ancient gnarled ironwood and dismounted.

"Why are you stopping?" Merret asked.

"Best go the rest of the way on foot, m'lord. It's just over that ridge."

Frey nodded, and began dismounting from his horse without another thought.

"There's something wrong here," Gared muttered.

Their commander gave an exasperated sigh; "What?"

"Can't you feel it?" Gared asked. "Listen to the darkness."

Will could feel it. Four years in the Night's Watch, and he had never been so afraid. What was it?

Frey, apparently, could feel no such thing. "I hear wind, Gared. I hear the trees rustling, and just now I heard a wolf. What exactly am I supposed to be listening for?" When Gared did not answer, Merret shrugged and began to unsheathe his longsword.

"The trees press close here," Will warned. "That sword will tangle you up, m'lord. Better a knife." Again, Frey shrugged at this; he tied his sword to his saddle, and took out his knife.

Gared dismounted, and said he would see to starting a fire; Frey simply grunted at that, and told Will to "lead the way".

Will threaded their way through a thicket, then started up the slope to the low ridge where he had found his vantage point under a sentinel tree. Under the thin crust of snow, the ground was damp and muddy, slick footing, with rocks and hidden roots to trip you up. Will made no sound as he climbed. Behind him, he heard the soft metalic slither of the Frey's ringmail, the rustle of leaves, and muttered curses as the fat man tripped over rocks and branches.

The great sentinel was right there at the top of the ridge, where Will had known it would be, its lowest branches a bare foot off the ground. Will slid in underneath, flat on his belly in the snow and the mud, and looked down on the empty clearing below.

His heart stopped in his chest. For a moment he dared not breathe. Moonlight shone down on the clearing, the ashes of the firepit, the snow-covered lean-to, the great rock, the little half-frozen stream. Everything was just as it had been a few hours ago.

They were gone. All the bodies were gone. "Get down!" Will whispered urgently, "Something's wrong."

Merret dropped quickly beside Will; after a few moments of silence, he whispered "What are we looking for?" Will did not answer; partly because he did not yet know, and partly because he did not know if whatever was out there could hear them.

After a time, he heard Merret stand beside him and curse. "Look, I don't know what we're supposed to be afraid of, but I am _not_ returning to Castle Black emptyhanded; my fucking brothers will never let me hear the end of it if I do." Will did not respond, still looking into the darkness of the forrest, trying to lay eyes on what he could feel was there. "Climb a fucking tree, why don't you? See if you can make anything out from higher up."

Will turned away, wordless. There was no use to argue. The wind was moving. It cut right through him. He went to the tree, a vaulting grey-green sentinel, and began to climb. Soon his hands were sticky with sap, and he was lost among the needles. Fear filled his gut like a meal he could not digest. He whispered a prayer to the nameless gods of the wood, and slipped his dirk free of its sheath. He put it between his teeth to keep both hands free for climbing. The taste of cold iron in his mouth gave him comfort.

Down below, Frey called out suddenly, "Who's that?" Will heard a shrill fear in the question. He stopped climbing; he listened; he watched.

The woods gave answer: the rustle of leaves, the icy rush of the stream, a distant hoot of a snow owl.

The Others made no sound.

A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Frey. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took.

The fat weasal lord looked on dumbly, words choking in his throat, his knife helf alof, shaking. He took a few meager steps back.

The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.

Frey suddenly grew still, and dropped his own blade; then, with speed Will did not know he had until then, turned around and ran, screaming.

The Others had gone after him. Hours must have passed since then, but Will could not bring himself to climb down from the tree, frozen as he was by the cold winds and by fear.

Then he saw Gared, slinking into the grove, blade in hand. He could hear him, even from high as he was, whispering, "Will! Will! Where are you?" He looked around and continued, "The Frey fucking ran off, scatted the horses..." _That was the smartest thing he's done since joining_ , Will thought... though as soon as the thought crosse his mind, he realized that wasn't strictly true; without Will and Gared to corroborate his story, Merret was likely to find himself executed as a deserter when he got back to the Wall, assuming he even made it back. He didn't know how the old man had stayed safe from those... things, but he was here now, calling out to him as loudly as one dared. Will made to respond...

Until he saw them again. Quiet as shadows, they approached Gared from behind before he had a chance to turn around. The blade alive with moonlight silently slipped through his friends chest; only his black brother made any sound.


	11. Book Two: Chapter 1 (Eddard)

Book Two

 **The Mummer's Game**

 **EDDARD**

Ned Stark sat in the godswood, cleaning from his blade the blood of the Night's Watch deserter. His death, sadly, had not been a clean one; the condemned was a large man and old, perhaps too old and unfit for the Night's Watch to make a ranger. Not that he had any say, as the Night's Watch looked to its own affairs; Eddard's duty, earlier that day, was only to pass judgement on one of theirs who had forsaken his vows. Though part of Ned wished that the condemned had handled his death better, he knew he had no right to hold it against him; a Lord owed it to a man he condemned to die to look him in the eye and hear his last words, even if the eyes showed only tears and terror, and the words were nothing but mad ramblings about the Others come again. And of course, the desire not to die, but Ned would hold that against no man.

He heard his wife gently approach, and softly call for his attention; "Ned."

"Catelyn." He looked up at his wife, still as beautiful as the day he married her. "Where are the children?"

"In the kitchen, arguing about names for the wolf pups." She sat beside him. "Arya is already in love, and Sansa is charmed and gracious, but Rickon is not quite sure."

"Is he afraid?"

"A little" Cat admitted. "He is only three."

Ned knew his wife would say this, but he liked it no better. "He must learn to face his fears. He will not be three forever. And winter is coming." Cat could respond only with a solemn nod.

Eddard looked down to his sword, still not quite clean of the blood. "He was the fourth this year. The poor man was half-mad. Something had put a fear in him so deep that my words could not reach him." He sighed. "Ben writes that the strength of the Night's Watch is down below a thousand. It's not only desertions. They are losing men on rangings as well."

"Is it the wildlings?"

"Who else? And it will only grow worse. The day may come when I have no choice but to call the banners and ride north to deal with this King beyond the Wall for good and all."

"Beyond the Wall?" Ned could hear a trace of fear in Catelyn's voice.

He sought to reassure his wife. "Mance Rayder is nothing for us to fear."

Catelyn looked like she might say something to that, but decided against it; her face went somber upon her next words. "There was grevious news today, my lord. I did not wish to trouble you until you had cleansed yourself." His wife looked him in the eyes. "I am so sorry, my love. Jon Arryn is dead."

"Jon..." For a time, Ned was speechless; Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East, and Hand of the King, had been like a second father to him. Cat's words, simple though they might have been, seemed too incredible to believe at first. "Is this news certain?"

"It was the king's seal, and the letter was in Robert's own hand. I saved it for you." She handed him the parchment. "He said Lord Arryn was taken quickly. Even Maester Pycelle was helpless, but he brought the milk of the poppy, so Jon did not linger long in pain."

"That is some small mercy, I suppose." It was the only thing Ned could think to say, though it mattered little to his grief. It was only then that the truth set in; _Jon Arryn is dead_. Out of some instinct, Ned's mind turned to another matter. "Your sister... and Jon's children. What word of them?"

"The message said only that they were well, and had returned to the Eyrie."

Ned considered that. "Lysa will not lack for company there. I recall Jon had praise for the man he chose for his Lord Steward, Ser Geremy Frey..."

"Small Steward" Catelyn corrected him. "Lord Nestor Royce is the Lord Steward of the Vale, Ser Geremy is the Small Steward of the Eyrie."

"Right... he said that he had made the Eyrie a pleasant place for Elia Martell and her daughter. As to them, Rhaenys and Rowena were childhood friends, were they not? And your uncle is there as well; Jon named him Knight of the Gate, I'd heard..."

Cat interrupted him. "There were other tidings as well." Her face had not lost its seriousness. "Robert asks you to travel south to King's Landing. He means to name you his Hand."

That was a surprise. Back at the Eyrie, Ned and Robert had been like brothers. But from the moment a crown was put on his head, the two former friends had only become more estranged. It seemed at every turn there was something both bringing them closer together, then further apart. First, it was the babe Prince Aegon; then it was the death of Lyanna, and her son; then it was the Greyjoy Rebellion. _And now, it is Jon Arryn's death, and naming me Hand in his place._

"You must accept." Catelyn's voice was soft, but firm.

Ned did not want to believe it. "My duties are here in the North. I have no wish to be Robert's Hand." But part of him already knew what Cat would say, and that she was right.

"He will not understand that. He is king now, and kings are not like other men. If you refuse to serve him, he will wonder why, and sooner or later he will begin to suspect that you oppose him. You know the danger, you know that you cannot do this."

Part of Ned still wanted to object, to say that he and Robert were like brothers, that he would never suspect him of such a thing... but he could not bring himself to say such a thing, because he knew that was folly. _The truth is that Robert and I are not as close as we once were; and that means we must be brought ever closer together again._ "Then it must be done" he concluded. "I must go south, serve the king, and restore our family's grace to the crown."

But Eddard Stark knew that this did not settle the matter. "Catelyn, you shall stay here in Winterfell."

Her face instantly became defiant. "No..."

"Yes. You must govern the North in my stead while I run Robert's errands. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Robb is fourteen. Soon enough, he will be a man grown. He must learn to rule, and I will not be here for him. Make him part of your councils. He must be ready when his time is come."

Ned's wife listened to his words, and when he was done, considered her response. As he knew she would, Cat nodded her consent. She followed with another question; "What of the other children?"

Ned considered his answer. "Rickon is young. He should stay with you and Robb." Cat nodded at this. "Sansa should come with me. Septa Mordane tells me she has become infatuated with her cousin, Jon; it would do her well to travel south, and meet more appropriate suitors." His wife hesitated, but nodded her consent to this as well. "Bran should come with me as well." Cat made to object, but Ned continued. "No Cat, you know as well as I how much that boy wants to be a knight, and he'll have far more opportunities for squiring in the south than he will here. And Bran is a sweet boy, quick to laughter, he may prove crucial toward restoring relations between Houses Stark and Baratheon."

"He is only seven..."

"I was eight when my father sent me to foster at the Eyrie."

"And Arya? Do you mean to take her too?" Her voice was tepid, tinged with both fear and hope.

"It is past time that Arya learned the ways of a southron court..."

Cat shook her head. "No, Ned do not do this. For the love you bear me..." Tears were welling in his wife's eyes. Ned could not find words to comfort her, so he took her in his arms.

"Very well" he heard himself say. "Arya can stay here in Winterfell." On conceding this, a notion crossed his mind, and Ned could not help but chuckle. "I doubt she would have liked it much in King's Landing anyway; she's a stubborn one."

Cat smiled, returned his laugh, and wiped a tear. "That she is."

For a time, the two simply sat in each other's arms, listening to the silence of the godswood. He heard the wind rustling the branches of the weirwood tree, and saw the ripples of the pond. Ned wondered if the gods he worshipped were trying to speak to him, and offered a silent prayer, asking them to look over his family.

After he was done, Catelyn asked about his nephew. "What of Jon?"

The question of Jon Stark's eventual title was as old as the boy itself; in the years since Howland Reed saw his infant nephew home to Winterfell, Northern lords and clans had made a number of moves which Ned knew to be in anticipation of Jon coming of age, in the hopes of binding themselves ever closer to House Stark. One of the more complicated of them were the fishing clans of the Stoney Shore, who were building a walled town at the southern point of their land. Complicated, because House Ryswell claimed they had rights over the lands; however Ned knew they hadn't ever exercised authority or justice over the lands to their north, and that since the fall of House Fisher, the clans largely governed themselves while swearing fealty directly to the Starks. He expected little trouble there. Then there was also Galbart Glover's offer of making a gift of Seadragon Point, complete with a new keep, in exchange for a Stark betrothal for either himself or his two year old nephew, Gawen. This was to say nothing of the various marriage offers for the daughters Greatjon Umber, Maege Mormont, Medgar Cerwyn, and Helman Tallhart; or of Wyman Manderly's aggressive offers of land and keep in exchange for marrying his granddaughter.

Maester Luwin had advised that a new Stark branch house in the west, incorporating both Seadragon Point and the Stony Shore, could prove quite beneficial for the people living there, as it would facilitate trade with lands further south, from the Ironborn, to Lannisport, to as far south as Oldtown and the Arbor. On top of that, there were the Martells back in Dorne, who Eddard had kept a correspondence with, who had their own reasons for encouraging the policy. Luwin and the relevant lords were given leave to lay as much of the foundations for all of this as they might... without yet commiting House Stark to creating and approving a new cadet branch, as Ned had thought that this question could still wait a few years before being fully resolved.

But now it seemed it must be settled sooner than expected. "I will see the matter of Jon's new title settled before I ride south. I mean to see him named Lord of Seadragon Point and the Stony Shore; by the time I'm ready to leave, Jon will likely want to ride off to claim his new keep." Catelyn got along well enough with his nephew, Ned knew, but she would have no objection to him leaving to make his own life.

But she did have one thought. "I expect he'll want to ride to Castle Black first. As I recall, he's had the desire to speak with Lord Commander Dayne for some years now."

Reflecting, Ned knew his wife was likely right. "I suppose it can't be helped then. I knew Jon would want to speak with the old white cloak sooner or later."

Looking down at Ice, Ned saw that he had finished cleaning the blade. "Well then" he said, "I think it's time we went inside."


	12. Book Two: Chapter 2 (The Shepherd King)

**THE SHEPHERD KING**  
(written by AJ Nolte)

"Outriders!" The scout was nearly as exhausted as his horse, but the young man sat straight, looking his commander in the eye. Not for the first time, Allhazghar marveled at the training and discipline of the Disinherited. "They look to be of Ogo's khalasar."

"How far ahead?"

"Less than half a day's ride, Ser."

"Good." The commander of the Disinherited, who also happened to be the over-all commander of the Lhazareen army, smiled slightly. "We will meet them along the Hesh-Kosrak road. Stylan, draw me a map of that stretch of ground, will you?" The scout nodded, dismounted, and began to sketch quickly in the dirt. The commander also dismounted, and Allhazghar followed.

"You'll want this ground, Ser, just north of the Hesh-Kosrak road." As he sketched, Allhazghar nodded.

"Your scout speaks wisely, Ser Oswell. I know that ground. The north facing slopes are much steeper than those that face south."

"Perfect. Well done, Stylan; see to your mount and yourself."

"Yes, Ser." The scout wheeled his horse away at a weary trot, and Allhazghar turned to Ser Oswell Whent with a slight frown.

"Are we ready?"

The westerosi laughed slightly."If we're not ready now, lad, we never will be. We have the unsullied to anchor the line, and the legions we've raised and trained from Lhazosh, Hesh and Kosrak are as ready as they can be, short of battle. My lads are ready of course, but we've done this sort of thing before. I judge the heavy cavalry have taken in as much Westerosi knight's training as I can give them, and you would know more of the slingers than I."

Allhazghar grinned. "That I would; it is still my favorite weapon. The old ghiskari legions had no finer auxiliaries; that I swear by the Shepherd." Allhazghar still remembered the day he had first used a sling as a weapon against another man. Nearly fifteen years ago that had been. He'd been a simple shepherd boy then, returning from tending his flocks to see his village aflame and Dothraki horse lords killing and raping the inhabitants. Allhazghar still recalled the look of surprise on the murdering horse-fucker's face when the slingstone caught him square in the forehead. It had done him little good, of course; he'd been sold to the fighting pits of Mereen, escaped, returned to Lhazar, and gathered a band of men to fight off the Dothraki whenever they came. When Ser Oswell found them, they were a ragged band of poorly trained outlaws. In the past ten years, the White Bat of Westeros and his woman, the Maegi, turned them into an army. Now, at long last, the plans that brought them together would come to fruition.

"It's just nerves, lad," Oswell said not unkindly. "No harm in it, but don't let them govern you."

"I will not. But do you think we can succeed in the end?"

"Well now," the White Bat said with a smirk, "I'd say your chances are better than mine. It's a long road I'll be traveling to set the true king on the Iron Throne, but like the free, united Lhazar you and Mirri Maz Duur want to build, it begins, or ends, today."

…

They arrived well before the Dothraki, and Allhazghar watched with professional detachment as the Lhazareen troops and unsullied began fortifying their positions. The lhazareen legions had been trained on a combination of unsullied and golden company lines, which was not surprising since the two sergeants responsible for training them were a veteran of the Golden Company and an unsullied trainer respectively. Unsurprisingly, Allhazghar paid more attention to the unsullied than the Lhazareens; if all went according to plan, the later would make up a substantial portion of Oswell's share of the spoils in the grand campaign. _And that grand campaign seemed much less imposing when it was all lines on a map, did it not? All well and good when a man offers to make you ruler of a new empire, but as da would say, there's a long difference in talking about sheering sheep and actually fleecing the buggers._

At long last, they saw the dust of the Dothraki khalasar approaching. The godswives of the Great Shepherd gave their invocations, and Allhazghar made the sign of the crook over his breast. He had not always been the most devout man, but who could doubt the Great Shepherd's grace on a day when so much had finally come together? _Give me strength this day, to be a guardian of your fold, Oh Great and Good Shepherd._ The dothraki whooped as they saw the army encamped before them, brandishing their curved arakhs and letting loose their fierce war cries.

"Steady on, you sheep-fucking shits!" That was the gruff, coarse, reassuring voice of Tom Waters, a man Oswell recruited for the Disinherited from the Golden Company almost ten years ago. Normally, Tom stood beside the banner of Ser Oswell's mercenary company: an uprooted white tree with a red dragon twined around it, but today he stood with the Lhazosh legion, acting as their senior Centurion. "If even one of you miserable in-bred shit-clods breaks ranks I'll flog you, gut you, and take a long piss in your skull!" Allhazghar saw tension leave nearly every legionnaire in hearing range. Blood-curdling threats from Tom Waters were, by now, almost reassuring for the young, tough Lhazareen shepherds he'd turned into soldiers.

"Ready slingers," he said in a calm but carrying voice.

"We are ready, Lord." The commander of the slingers had been with Allhazghar almost since the beginning, and it always made him uncomfortable when one of his first band of outlaws called him "Lord". Allhazghar supposed that was the "price of command" Oswell told him about so often. The Dothraki came on, then, an unstoppable tide washing up the craggy slopes of the hill. Allhazghar waited until the first rank was almost to the top of the hill, raised his arm, then dropped it in a chopping motion.

"Loose!" The lhazareen slingers had been trained to use sling staffs, which provided greater range and a more even trajectory. Based on a suggestion Oswell found in an old book of military history, they also fired lead balls made by the bell-caster who made bells for the Temple of the Great Shepherd in Lhazosh. This lead shot traveled further, faster and more evenly than the irregular stones most shepherds used in their slings. Allhazghar's slingers were the best, fastest, most accurate men with the traditional shepherd's weapon in all of Lhazar, meaning that each of them could fire the sling at least six times in a minute. Each slinger was equipped with a pouch containing twelve of the lead balls. And so, the Dothraki charging up the hill were met by a hail of lead balls that punched through unarmored men and horses.

"First rank, retire. Second rank, forward." The first rank of slingers fell back, opened their pouches, and received a fresh load of twelve shots from the loaders, young boys and girls who had trained for the purpose. While they did, the second rank poured fire on the charging Dothraki. If there had been any cohesion to the Dothraki charge to begin with, it melted under that withering, continuous fire. Still, the Dothraki came on, charging in a mad frenzy toward the infantry.

"Pikes down!" As one, the Lhazareen legionnaires dropped their pikes... and the Dothraki horses stopped.

…

It is a widely-held belief that cavalry charges always break infantry. The reality depends a great deal on the infantry, or rather, whether the will of the infantrymen can be broken before the common sense of the horse does. Infantry—particularly if armed with pikes—will stop a cavalry charge cold, for the pure and simple reason that horses, not being altogether stupid animals, prefer not to run into a forest of sharp pointy things aimed directly at them. What is so devastating about cavalry—and light cavalry like the Dothraki in particular—is a combination of mobility and intimidation. First, cavalry move faster than infantry, and can easily outflank them unless the infantry is well-trained or has a formation designed to prevent that. Second, the perfectly reasonable instinctive reaction of a man on the ground when a man on a horse is running at him is to get out of the way. For the Lhazareen army on that bloody day, the ground was in their favor, with a steep ridge of hills negating the mobility advantage of cavalry. And the will was also in their favor. The lhazareen legions had been superbly trained for the past several years to stand in exactly this situation. Many of them had been sent abroad to gain experience as infantrymen in skirmishes across the disputed lands, and in other parts of Essos. All of them had been put through the most rigorous training Ser Oswell Went and the Astapori unsullied trainers and Golden Company sergeants he hired could devise. And so, the Lhazareen pike blocks held, and the Dothraki attack swirled away. Gradually, the Dothraki found a "weak spot" in the line. It was a natural shoulder between two hills, where the slope was less steep and the solid Lhazareen legions were not present. Up the slope they came... and two thousand unsullied met them. Allhazghar saw Oswell's eyes watching that part of the battle keenly. The westerosi knight, on his visit to Astapor, took pains to express his skepticism about the unsullied, and asked to borrow 3,000 of them for a demonstration. The wise masters of Astapor agreed. After all, Ser Oswell wanted to hire all eight thousand of the eunuch soldiers, and had promised to give Astapor a great wealth in gold and exclusive rights to the slave trade in Westeros, which he would open for them, if the unsullied performed as expected. Allhazghar hid a savage smile at thought of what Ser Oswell actually intended for the Astapori, and all the cities of Slaver's Bay. The satisfaction was two-fold; he stood to benefit greatly from those plans, and no Lhazareen could ever forget the generations of forebears who suffered under the lash. If all went well, that would soon end forever. Yes, what happened in Slaver's Bay would be sweet, assuming today's battle went as expected.

"Sweet merciful mother," Ser Oswell breathed, and Allhazghar smiled more broadly. The Dothraki tide smashed against the unsullied wall, leaving broken men and horses in its wake... and receded. All along the lines, the Dothraki fell back down the hill, firing arrows behind them.

"Feigned retreat, just as we predicted," Allhazghar told the commander of the Disinherited. "Will they try to get around us to the east or the west, do you think?"

"To the east," Oswell said confidently. "They'll make for the dry river bed, I've no doubt of it." And, indeed, it appeared as though the Dothraki were breaking off their assault and swinging to the east of the line of hills on which the army had positioned itself.

"The remaining thousand unsullied will make sure they won't enjoy the experience. In the meantime," the Westerosi grinned, "it should give me time to get the heavy cavalry in place."

…

As Oswell predicted, the Dothraki failed to break through at the river bed. And so the khalasar swung west, putting the sun of the afternoon directly in their eyes as they rode across the front of the hills, seeking to flank the Lhazareen army to the west. In theory, the ground to the west looked suitable for such a maneuver; gently-sloping hills, with shepherd's paths running through them that would eventually take the Dothraki back to the Hesh-Kosrak road. Unfortunately for Ogo's khalasar, the western hills were also defended. With a loud blaring of horns, the heavy cavalry trained and led by Ser Oswell came barreling down the hill, lances leveled, and smashed into the more lightly-armed Dothraki. In the vanguard, Allhazghar saw two banners: the shepherd with a lamb draped over his shoulders that had been chosen as the banner of Lhazar, and the uprooted white tree and red dragon of the Disinherited.

As a rule, light cavalry do not fight heavy cavalry head-on. The typical Dothraki tactic was to feign retreat, lead the heavy cavalry to pursue them, and almost literally harass the heavier horsemen to death. Here, the Dothraki had two disadvantages. First, they were moving up hill, while the heavy cavalry came down hill at them. Second, the heavy cavalry had the fresher mounts. Ogo's khalasar shattered under the hammer blow, and Allhazghar watched its destruction with satisfaction. Oh, he doubted very much that most, or even all of the Dothraki who rode with Ogo would be killed. In fact, most would likely escape, and many would be offered a position in the Lhazareen army. There was something to be said for adding Dothraki as scouts and light cavalry, particularly for the upcoming campaign in Slaver's Bay. But Ogo was more than likely dead, meaning any survivors of the Khalasar who tried to reconstitute themselves would have to settle the matter of the succession first. More importantly, Allhazghar had demonstrated to his people, and to himself, that the Dothraki could be beaten, and that the Lhazareen were capable of doing it.

"You don't need to conquer the Dothraki sea," Oswell told him on that long-ago fateful day when he and Mirri Maz Duur explained their plan to turn a former shepherd boy, pit-fighter and bandit into an Emperor. "Make Lhazar strong enough that you can play his Khals off against one another. Keep any one of them from growing too powerful. Once you've grown stronger, you might even send missionaries of your good shepherd amongst the khalasars, and support those who convert with gold and military alliances. First, though, you must convince your people that it can be done, and that means smashing a Khalasar." With a satisfied smile, Allhazghar knew that the first step had already been taken, and that Lhazar would never be the same. He thought about the White Bat, this strange Westerosi man who had come to Lhazar and made Allhazghar's cause his own. There were times when he wondered what drove the man? Yes, he was lover to the maegi Mirri Maz Duur to be sure, and she had born him a half-Lhazareen daughter who was now a lass of twelve, and serving as a godswife and Maegi in training under the tutelage of her mother. Still, Allhazghar knew Ser Oswell to be almost fanatically driven by his far-off westerosi cause, and wondered how the man hoped to achieve it from Lhazar? _And yet, fifteen years ago, I would not have believed this day would ever come. Who knows, perhaps the white bat will succeed in crushing the wise masters, and leading an army of Unsullied across the narrow sea to put his true king on a throne of iron._ Such thoughts and fancies were far beyond Allhazghar's concern. He wished the White Bat luck, but Westeros was far away. For now, it would fall to the Shepherd King to begin building a free, powerful Lhazar on the foundation of victory that had just been laid. Still, he marveled at the loyalty Ser Oswell Went held to his dead king, and wondered who this Rhaegar Targaryen must have been to make a man like Oswell fight so hard in a hopeless bid to put his son on the Iron Throne.


	13. Book Two: Chapter 3 (Bran)

**BRAN**

The white direwolf was in a playful mood today, chasing Bran as he ran through the caravan; as he went, his red eyed friend would run up to riders, causing some of their horses to nervously rear. Since Bran didn't want to get into too much trouble, he was now trying to take their play further away.

"Ghost, to me!" he called, and Ghost came; since Robb and Jon had gotten their pick of the litter, Bran had found himself raising the albino runt. Months old now, Bran found Ghost was far more quiet than his brothers; never howled, never growled, never barked, but he was always moving, fond, as Bran was, of running, jumping, and exploring.

As the two made their way to the front of the column, Bran saw they were approaching a town; already, a crowd forming to greet them it seems. Running up to one of the squires, he asked him what was happening.

"The king sent riders from the capital to escort us the rest of the way," he told him. "An honor guard for the new Hand."

Anxious to see, Bran pushed his way through the crowd, Ghost lapping at his heels. When he got closer, he saw father talking with three knights. One of them was a man near twenty whose armor was steel plate of a deep forest-green; he was tall, powerfully made, with jet-black hair that fell to his shoulders, a clean-shaven face, and laughing green eyes to match his armor. Bran knew, by his antlered helmet and stag sigil, that he was the king's brother, Lord Renly Baratheon. The second was even younger, about Robb's age Bran guessed, with flowing brown hair and golden eyes, wearing armor intricately fashioned and enambled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers; Bran did not know him. The third knight wore a an intricate suit of white enameled scales, with silver chasings and clasps; his face was still helmed as Bran approached.

Father was speaking, "Gods Renly, I haven't seen you since Storm's End. You were such a small boy then...", and it was at this, that the third knight took off his helm. Bran saw his face, and that he was an old man with hair as pale as his armor... and instantly knew who the knight was.

"Ser Barristan Selmy!" he found himself shouting. The knights turned to him, and Ser Barristan gave Ghost a concerning glance; one of the other men said something about his direwolf, sounding shocked, but Bran didn't care enough to really notice. "I can't believe it, you're really him!" he excitedly yelled; "I know all the stories Ser Barristan, Duskendale, the Kingswood Brotherhood..."

As Bran tried to push his way to his hero, father grabbed his arm "That's enough, Bran! Ser Barristan and his company have had a long day of travel-"

"But Father, it's Ser Barristan the Bold!" It was all too much for Bran, who found himself jumping up and down, screaming with excitement.

Renly was laughing hard by this point. "Barristan the Old, you mean. Don't flatter him too sweetly lad, he thinks overmuch of himself already."

The young knight, who Bran did not know, stepped forward then. "I don't suppose you have heard of me, young boy."

"No" Bran admitted "but you're wearing a white cloak, so -" It was then that Bran realized, "I know all the men of the Kingsguard, and none are as young as you." He looked up to father; "Are there?"

Bran saw that father had put on his lord's face. "No Bran, there aren't." The face looked up, back at the knights. "Why is Ser Loras wearing a cloak of the Kingsguard?"

Renly was silent for a moment, then gave a sad sigh. "It is unfortunate that this is how you would learn this, Ned; not a month after my brother sent you word of Jon Arryn's passing, he was joined by Ser Gerold Hightower."

Bran was surprised and saddened to hear this. He recalled that his father had known Ser Gerold for a time, that he was present during Aunt Lyanna's final days, and had rode with father to King's Landing after. The White Bull, father told him, had been an old knight even then, and by now he would have survived to an older age on the Kingsguard than any other man Bran could think of.

Still, the Lord of Winterfell asked, "My lord, how did he die?"

Renly shrugged. "How do old men usually die? One day, he fell asleep breaking fast with some fellow early risers in the Small Council, and didn't wake up. At first, Maester Pycelle thought the sweets had only made him tired, but when the Lord Commander did not wake after several hours..."

"I am sorry to hear" father said. "Ser Gerold was one of the truest knights I knew."

"He wasn't as much for wielding his blade towards the end, but I will grant, he always gave my brother fair, honest counsel. And not even Jon or Stannis were so attentive during the meetings of the Small Council."

"Ser Jaime Lannister has been appointed the new Lord Commander" Ser Barristan added.

Hearing the name got Bran excited again; "The Kingslayer? I know his songs, or at least the one about him and the Dragon's Fool..." Father gave him a disapproving look, and Bran shamefully quieted himself.

After a time, father, the lords, and the knights once again mounted their horses, and the caravan continued to march south. Father and Renly rode together at the head of the column, talking, while Ser Barristan rode not too far behind; Bran was riding now, Ghost trotting beside him, and tried to get his steed to ride beside this legend of the Kingsguard.

Ser Barristan gave Ghost an uneasy glance. "I can't say I approve of him. King's Landing is no place for a wild beast like that."

"Ghost isn't a wild" protested Bran. "I've raised him since he was a pup. Same as Sansa did with Lady."

"Yes, I've met that one as well. Hers is a lot better behaved than yours, from what I've seen of it, for what that's worth. Still..."

At that, Bran could hear father and Renly raising their voices; the old knight looked ahead to the front of the column, biting his lip. "Lord Renly's pestering him about Highgarden. He's been on about that royal visit ever since they announced the betrothal..."

"What betrothal?" Bran asked.

Ser Barristan was surprised, then looked embarassed. "Forgive me, young lordling, I forgot myself. A man of the Kingsguard should not be gossiping about such matters."

At this Bran heard laughter behind him; he turned to look, and saw that it was the young flowered knight, Ser Loras Tyrell. "Oh come now Ser Selmy, we're not revealing any of the king's secrets. The matter is well known to everyone in King's Landing by now." He turned to Bran, smiling. "The betrothal Ser Barristan spoke of was that of the Crown Prince. Robert's promised his son to Rhaenys, the granddaughter of the last king. I heard that Jon Arryn had been pushing the match for years, but seems it wasn't until after the Hand died that Robert decided to listen to him..."

"That's enough." Ser Barristan said firmly. "You're a knight of the Kingsguard now, Tyrell. That means you are to keep the king's secrets."

Ser Loras only smirked as he raised his hands defensively. "Fear not Ser Barristan, I know how to guard my tongue. And to do the rest." He nodded at Bran, "Lad...", and fell back into the caravan.

Some time later, Bran heard the horses ahead whiny, and saw that it was Ghost and Lady, running past father and Renly's horses, and towards the river to their side. Ser Barristan cleared his throat; "You know we won't be able to let those two run about the Red Keep, don't you Bran?"

Bran bit his lip; father had told him they'd have to keep Ghost and Lady in the kennels when they got to King's Landing, but it still bothered him to hear it again. "Ser Barristan, I was wondering..."

"You're far too young to squire, little one. Your father mentioned you might have such an ambition. I know, what boy does not dream of becoming a knight, of one day wearing the white cloak. But..." Ser Barristan trailed, as he took note of something.

Bran turned, but it was only his direwolf, playing once again among the horses. "Ghost, to me!" he said, though now with a tinge of sadness.


	14. Book Two: Chapter 4 (Arthur)

**ARTHUR**

(collaborative chapter)

The Lord Commander looked thoughtfully across the dinner table. At the seat of honor was the guest of the Night's Watch, Jon Stark, who in turn was seated next to his uncle, and the First Ranger of the Night's Watch, Benjen. The two were laughing as they spoke, catching up as only family memebers could. Ser Allister Thorne, the Master at Arms was well drunk by this point, sloshing his drink about, blindly smiling across the table; Lothar Frey, the Lord Steward, on the other hand, was perfectly sober, his clever eyes open as ever, watching the guest; and Maester Aemon, as ever, sat smiling, listening to the men talk more than he spoke.

And during the entire meal, all Arthur could think about was how to get these men out of the room, so that he could have a private conversation with the boy called Jon Stark. He had wanted to speak to the boy from the moment he arrived at Castle Black, but he also knew how careful he had to be where and when certain matters were discussed.

Arthur knew he might command the Night's Watch, but he knew it was his Lord Steward who commanded the Wall itself. To be sure, Lothar was a capable man, and could not fault him for how he ran the stewards at Castle Black; nor could he fault his First Builder, Yarwyck, for consulting with the Frey more than him; and, for all his influence, he stayed clear of his Lord Commander's authority where it really mattered, in his command of the rangers and relations with the wildings. (Arthur was especially grateful for that last part, as not all the black brothers were so sanguine about his policy of negotiation and fostering of peaceful relations with those who called themselves "the free folk"; but Arthur knew full well, from his days in the Kingsguard, of the importance of fostering good relations with the common people, be they the small folk of the Kingswood or the tribes Beyond the Wall. Of course, there was the Merret incident, but Lothar seemed to be embarassed of his brother's shame above anything else; still...) And for most of his years as Lord Commander, Arthur was happy that his Lord Steward sought and used the council of Maester Aemon; it only helped that the stewards at the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch corresponded regularly with Castle Black, and were as independent of Mormont and Pyke as Lothar was of him.

But tonight it made him wary; true, Aemon had been a friend to Arthur since he arrived at the Wall, and the two had also bonded over their relations and feelings of loyalty to the Targaryen line, and he even fully expected the old man's strong feelings extended to his young relative. Still, he had to be careful.

Because for all the trust he showed Lothar Frey in running the Wall, he knew the man was immensely clever and never shrank from using information to his advantage. The fact that he had worked harder than any man, following the death of Qorgyle, to see Dayne chosen as the next Lord Commander only worried Arthur more; it was said, after all, that a man who held such deep ambitious to be the man behind the throne could be more dangerous to the king than one who would sit in his chair. Such a man, Arthur understood, could not know of the loyalty he still held to Jon Stark.

At present though, the Frey was in the room, speaking to Jon. "... and true, the lad is literate, but Castle Black has the few stewards it needs to look after the records and library; the other duties he does poorly at, to say nothing of how hopeless his training with Ser Allister seems to be going. If he was sent here as punishment or actually wanted to join the Night's Watch, of course, we would think nothing of these challenges, but as it is..."

"Does he want to come with me?" Jon asked.

Lothar could only shrug at that. "I wouldn't presume to ask him, Lord Stark. Though if you wish to speak to the Tarly boy yourself..."

There was a howl outside, and the table fell silent. Jon chuckled nervously, "That'll be Rhaegal; I should go feed him..."

Arthur saw a chance there; "No, you stay here. The stewards can feed the wolf with the other dogs."

He turned to Lothar, who already understood; "I will see that Chett knows to feed the beast as well. Maester Aemon...", who he nodded to as he rose; Arthur understood that as well.

Once the Lord Steward was gone, the Lord Commander turned to his Master at Arms. "Ser Allister, I think you may have had enough drink for the night. Mayhaps you should head to your quarters, so you might stand a better chance of training the recruits sober tomorrow?" As he knew the man would, Allister nodded somberly and made to stand.

Arthur could afford to speak to Allister this way; the two knights had arrived at the Wall around the same time, and at first his black haired companion had been quiet, preferring to keep to himself, perhaps even nervous around keeping the same company as a former white cloak. If so, the reverence did not last, and he soon became one of the companions to the new Master at Arms at Castle Black, even becoming one of Dayne's sparring partners, helping to keep his skills sharp. And when the black brothers saw fit to promote Arthur to their Lord Commander, he saw Thorne to be his best fit replacement in training the new recruits. It came at a price though, as within a matter of months Allister was using his commander's company to vent about the new recruits, muttering in his drink how pitiful the newest batch of green boys were and such; still, Arthur preferred to hear this himself over drinks than have the recruits have to listen about their ineptitude themselves. And so long as he had someone to listen to him vent, Allister made for a patient, capapble teacher.

As the Master at Arms stumbled out the door, Aemon, to Arthur's relief, did the rest. "Brother Benjen, mayhaps you should look to the preparations for tommorrow's expedition?" Benjen's face turned somber at this, but he nodded, and excused himself. Aemon smiled, his blind eyes looking across the table. "And now, Lord Commander, I believe it is time my old bones turned in as well. By your leave..."

Arthur granted it, smiling. _I was wrong to ever doubt your friendship, Aemon. My thanks._ And once the Maester left, he was finally alone with Jon.

…

"I suppose," Ser Arthur Dayne said with an ironic smile, "you did not come all the way north to the wall simply to see it and enjoy the meager hospitality of the Night's Watch?"

Jon Stark grinned slightly. "You suppose correctly, Lord Commander. I came to speak to you."

"You want to know about your mother and father?"

"Yes." Jon let out a breath slowly. "Uncle Ned has told me of my mother, but can say little of their time together, and what drove them to…"

"To destroy the Seven Kingdoms for love, is that it?"

Jon blushed slightly, but met Ser Arthur's eyes unflinchingly. "Yes."

"How much do you know of the Targaryens Jon?"

"Some. I'm well acquainted with the Conquest of Dorne, and several histories from the Dance of Dragons, and of course, accounts of the conquest."

"They came from Old Valyria. Do you know that story?"

"Yes. Lady Daenys the Dreamer warned Aenar Targaryen of the fall that was coming, and so he left Old Valyria for Dragonstone."

"Just so. And conquered the Seven Kingdoms with dragons. Dragons, prophecy, magic; things that have always fascinated the Targaryens, often to their doom. So it was with Arian Brightflame, who sought to make himself a dragon, and Aegon V at the tragedy of Summerhal. Dragons and prophesies, and House Targaryen at the center of them all. Aegon's first-born son, Duncan the Small, wed a girl named Jenny of Oldstones, who brought with her to court an old woman known as the woods witch. Some say she was one of the children of the forest; most doubt it. The woods witch prophesied that House Targaryen would be restored through the children of Aerys and Rhaella. And there was another cryptic line in that prophesy: "the dragon must have three heads". Rhaegar was born amidst the smoke and death of Summerhal, so mayhaps it was inevitable that he should believe the prophesy applied especially to him. Yet after the birth of Aegon, your brother, it became clear to the prince that Elia Martell could not bare him another child."

"And the dragon must have three heads. So, why my mother? Why not Cersei Lannister, or even a girl of lesser status?"

"There were other prophesies—old ones—that spoke of a union of ice and fire. Rhaegar became convinced that this meant a Stark must somehow be involved. And so, he became fascinated—mayhaps even obsessed—with your mother. Lyanna Stark found the Prince's attentions flattering and welcome. Her betrothed, Robert Baratheon, was a noted womanizer even then, and I suspect she wanted something better for herself. So, when Rhaegar begged her to run away with him, she did so. Most of the rest, you know."

"So it was all about some bloody prophesy?"

"Yes, Jon. Rhaegar thought he was safeguarding the future of not only the Seven Kingdoms, but the world itself. That is why he took your mother… and that is why he married her."

"Married?"

"Yes."

"Does Uncle Ned know?"

"I am not certain what his sister told him, and what he believed. Better for him if he does not know, for what he does not know, Robert can never learn from him. Ser Oswell, Ser Gerold and I all knew the truth. Princess Elia suspected, I believe, but more than that I cannot say for certain. Your father and mother were married Jon, and so your rightful name is Jon Targaryen, the first of your name, king of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. And of course, should you even consider claiming it, agents of the crown would kill you within the fortnight. Do you understand?"

Jon nodded solemnly. "As a legitimized Stark, I pose little threat to the king, but as a true-born Targaryen…"

"And it is not only Robert you need fear. Viserys Targaryen waits in Bravos, seeking an opportunity to press his own claim, with many of the remaining Targaryen loyalists in his court. He would not welcome news of your true-born Targaryen status any more than Robert. So you see, Jon, to reveal the truth would only result in your death, and mayhaps civil war. None of Rhaegar's last three loyal kingsguard wanted that, and if your Uncle knew the secret, I presume he felt the same.

"Yes, I think I understand." Jon stood and began to pace. "Uncle Ned never said anything, but I always suspected my acknowledgement was a source of friction between him and the king. Now, though, he has been called south to be made Hand, and I have been given lordship of the western shore."

"A powerful and important position."

"And yet, I could be king."

"You could. Renounce your Stark heritage, claim the Seven Kingdoms based on a claim of true-born blood. If that is your chosen course, I will give you a sworn statement to the truth of the claims, and my word still carries some weight. I believe Ser Oswell is far off in Essos, scheming against the day when you will make such a choice. It will be difficult, and will almost certainly cause civil war, but it is a choice you could make."

"Or, I could remain a Stark, build a port town on the west coast, foster trade with Lannisport, the Iron Islands and the Summer Isles, make a good marriage, and start a cadet branch of House Stark. Eventually, you, Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Went will die, and the world will be none the wiser that this new pack of wolves are dragons in truth."

"Those are indeed the paths that lie before you Jon; the choice, in the end, is yours."


	15. Book Two: Chapter 5 (Gawen)

**GAWEN**

(written by AJ Nolte)

Dragonstone loomed on the horizon. Gawen stared raptly at the island as the ship rolled closer. It had been nearly four years since his last trip home; four years serving as a paige for his mother's family at Stonehelm. Now, at last, he returned home to serve as a squire for his father. The island looked somehow smaller than he'd remembered - smaller, and bleaker.

"Your father will be pleased to see you, Gawen." He turned as Ser Andrew Estermont approached. "And shocked at how you've grown in the past four years." Gawen gave the kind knight, who was also a cousin of some sort, an abstracted smile. It was true he had grown, and given that he had only turned three and ten at his next name day, he was likely not done growing. _I'll be taller and broader than father, and taller, at least, than Uncle Robert._ He had not looked in a mirror since he left Stonehelm, but he knew what his father would see: a tall boy, still all knees and elbows, with a mop of coal black hair, blue eyes and features that were as much Swann as they were Baratheon.

"I look forward to seeing him as well, Ser Andrew, as well as my stepmother, my sister and my foster sister."

"They've both grown a great deal since you've left. The Lady Daenerys is practically a woman grown." Gawen knew that was true on some level, but he still could not quite imagine it. Daeni had written to him, of course, and quite often, but he still could not envision her as anything other than the pale-haired slip of a girl with whom he had run and played through the corridors of Dragonstone as a child, under the vigilant but tolerant eyes of Ser Daerald Drake, her sworn shield.

"And, is Ser Daerald well?"

Andrew Estermont grinned. "Aye, lad; well as ever. Your father has threatened to make him castelain of Dragonstone many times, and I think mayhaps Ser Daerald is finally weakening. Though... but that's your father's business, to speak of with you, or not, as he chooses."

"What's he like, to squire for, I mean? You were his squire, were you not?"

"I was, and never in my life have I had a greater honor. What's he like? Stern, but fair. He will doubtless be somewhat sterner with you than he was with me, as you are his son and a future lord. But always fair, Gawen; have no fear of that."

"They say he was passed over to be Hand, in favor of Ned Stark. The court was all whispers and murmurs."

"I doubt not." Ser Andrew made a face. "Stark is a good man." Gawen suspected that was all the knight would say on the subject, and he was proven right.

…

Stannis met them at the docks of Dragonstone. After exchanging courtesies with Ser Andrew, he stepped forward and clasped forearms with his son, man to man.

"Welcome home, Gawen."

"It's good to see you again, father."

"And you. Your journey was pleasant, I trust?"

"Pleasant enough. Ser Balon Swann escorted me as far as King's Landing, where Ser Andrew met me. Uncle Renly and the king both send their greetings from the capital, as does Ser Courtney Penrose at Storm's End. I have brought letters from both of your brothers, as well as from Stonehelm." Gawen drew out the packet of letters and handed them to his father, who nodded courteously and gave a slight smile. _He looks older than I remembered, and there is a hardness about his eyes. Is that new, or was I simply too young to notice it in the past?_

"Very good. Your stepmother expressed her happiness at your return, but is regrettably not feeling well." Gawen hid a grimace. He was just as happy not to see Lady Selyse, but mentioning that to her husband would be far from chivalrous. "Shireen and Lady Daenerys are both eager to see you. Shall we go?"

"If it please you, father."

Stannis snorted. "Lord Swann taught you courtesy, if nothing else. What else did you learn at Stonehelm, boy?" Stannis began walking as they talked, and Gawen fell in beside him.

"I learned the sword and the bow, father, and a great deal of the history of the marches and the stormlands." _And I learned to kill and skin a march hare; to sing marcher ballads and play kissing games with marcher lasses; and to listen not only to what men say of Uncle Renly, but also how they say it. I learned that not all in the storm lands love their liege lord's bowing and scraping before Mace Tyrell, and scheming with his children. I learned that there are rumors about Uncle Renly—rumors that he prefers the company of young men to young women, and many in the marches hope that one of their own might one day rule in Storm's End. But how much of that do I dare tell you, father?_

"Good." Stannis seemed unaware of his son's thoughts. "You will learn a deal more of swordwork from Ser Andrew, Ser Richard Horpe, Ser Daerald and myself. From Ser Davos you will learn all you could wish to know of ships, and more. And you will sit with me as I make judgments for our vassals, as a lord's heir should."

"I look forward to it, father."

"Do you, lad? A squire's life is not easy, and I will not be easy on you because you are my son. You will rise before the sun, and not sleep until well after it sets. You will work until you are soar in every muscle, including your mind, and many a day you will curse my name. These things I promise, and I am a man of my word. And when, one day, you sit vigil in the Sept and feel the holy oils on your forehead, you will have no doubt that you are ready to be a knight. And when I die and the lordship falls to you, you will be prepared for that as well." Gawen was not sure how to respond to his father, but his face must have told the tale of his confusion. Stannis laughed. "Did you expect something else, boy?"

"I... was not sure what to expect, father."

"Mayhaps some sign of affection or pride?"

"I... suppose so, father."

"Good." Stannis nodded. "I will not abide any lies between us, boy. Affection." Stannis' face was a mask. "I did not love your mother. Are you surprised to hear me say it? Do not be; our marriage was arranged. But I was fond of her. I remember standing by her bedside after she gave birth to you. We both knew she would not last the night. She said 'I know you do not love me, My Lord, but I hope I have earned your favor in baring you a son'. I did not know what to say, Gawen, so I stroked her hair and sat with her until the end came. I think - I hope - she understood. I have only wept once since then; the day we learned of your sister's gray scale. My affection - my love - you have, boy. My pride must be earned, but you have done nothing to make me doubt you will earn it. But showing such things does not come easily. Do you understand?"

"I think so, father. Only..."

"Out with it, Gawen; no secrets between us, as I said."

"It is only that I wondered why you chose to have me squire here, and not at the Eyrie or Storm's End?"

"Would you have preferred that?"

"No," Gawen said, and meant it. "The Eyrie is in chaos, now that Jon Arryn is dead, and Uncle Renly is more at court than he is at Storm's End. But there were some... questions about the decision."

"Men who wonder why I did not send you to Storm's End, to ingratiate yourself with the lords of the stormlands and have yourself named Renly's heir." Gawen nodded. "And do you want Storm's End, or are you satisfied with Dragonstone. Be honest, son."

"I... I want Storm's End, father, but not just for myself. It should have been yours after the war. You are the king's elder brother, and yet you act as Regent for Daeni, and do not even have a place truly of your own, while Uncle Renly..."

"Does not appreciate what he has." Stannis ground his teeth, then let out a sigh. "Robert is king, Gawen, and makes decisions based on what feels best to him. He forgave Jon Arryn for Rhaenys, and if he has called Ned Stark to be Hand, he has forgiven him for saving Rhaegar's bastard. I think he could forgive me for not slaying Daenerys, but the escape of Viserys is something he has not, and may never forgive. Nothing could have been done; the boy was gone from Dragonstone before he sent me from King's Landing." He ground his teeth again, "but Robert is not a reasonable man where the dragons are concerned. It took Jon Arryn all this time to convince Robert to marry Joffrey to Rhaenys, thereby securing the dynasty. The betrothal should have been made ten years ago, but Robert would not hear of it. But he is my king and my elder brother, and so I will abide by his decisions."

"And yet, why not send me to Storm's End, as you suggest? Uncle Renly seems... unlikely to have an heir..."

"Meaning the stormlands will fall to you by default in time. We play for other stakes now, Gawen. I will tell you all in time, but for now, it would be dangerous for you to know."

"No secrets you said, father?"

"This is no secret, boy, not to any with eyes to see, but the last man with whom I spoke of it is now dead. Are you prepared to guarantee you will never speak of it, or even hint that you suspect it? Will you be able to keep it hidden from the master of whisperors or Tywin Lannister?"

"I... do not know, father."

"Then, for now, you are not ready to hear it. Besides, I need more proof!" Stannis ground his teeth again, then relaxed slightly. "I swear to you that, when the time is right, you will know all. For now, let us greet your sister and foster sister, and not speak of such weighty matters for a time."

Gawen nodded, but his mind was churning. He had no idea what his father could possibly be hiding, but he was more determined than ever to find out.

…

"Gawen!" Shireen headed for him swifter and straighter than a marcher arrow. Gawen scooped his little sister into the air and spun her upside down, setting her on her feet again with a mock grunt of effort.

"Seven hells, but you're getting too big for that!" Shireen giggled, and Gawen looked down at her in puzzlement. "What is that mud on your face.

"A poultice from one of mother's wise women." Shireen screwed up her face in distaste. "It itches and smells bad."

"You will obey your mother in this, Shireen," Stannis said sternly.

"Yes father. Gawen, did you bring me anything?"

"I may have something." With a grin, Gawen reached into his pack and pulled out a stag puppet. Shireen squealed with delight, and Gawen grinned. "I stole it from a mummer in King's Landing. He was very cross with me; in fact, there's a price on my head, so I hope you enjoy it."

"You are lying."

"I am your big brother; telling outrageous stories is my job, believing them is yours. You are failing in your duty as a little sister by doubting me." Shireen giggled again, and Gawen ruffled her hair.

"Welcome home, Gawen." He turned... and his breath caught as his eyes fell on the lovely, pale-haired young woman standing before him.

"Daeni?" She curtsied, and gave him a shy smile.

"I am glad to see you again. I trust your journey was pleasant?"

"I... it was... yes, but nothing was so pleasant as seeing you again." He bowed, feeling horrendously awkward, and saw her blush slightly. _Gods, why did Ser Andrew not warn me how beautiful she was?_

"You are too kind, Gawen."

Selyse swept into the room, and Gawen turned to bow to her. "Gawen, welcome home. You may kiss me upon the cheek." He stepped forward and dutifully did as she required.

"It is good to see you again, stepmother."

Selyse snorted. "Our reports of you from Lord and Lady Swann were quite positive Gawen; see that you maintain such impeccable conduct now that you are again at home. Come, Shireen, it is time to change your poultice." Shireen made a face at Gawen when Selyse was not looking, but dutifully trailed behind her mother. That left only one man for Gawen to greet; the tall, silver-gilt-haired knight standing watchfully behind Daenerys.

"Welcome home, lad," Ser Daerald Drake said with a grin.

Gawen walked forward, clasped arms with the man, and gave him a grin. "Good to see you, Ser Daerald."

"You've grown like a weed." Daerald examined his hands, "and those are sword calluses or I'm a dothraki. So, think you know which end of a sword to hold, do you?"

"Well enough."

"Shall we test that?"

"Gladly, if father agrees."

"I have not been able to prevent Ser Daerald from doing what he wants since the rebellion; today will hardly be different." Gawen heard an actual note of amusement in his father's voice.

"It's settled then, lad; come show the old war horse what you can do."

…

After being thrashed for the fourth time, Gawen staggered to his feet and gulped a goblet of water.

"Enough, Ser Daerald; I surrender."

"Not half bad," the knight said with a wicked grin, "though I think it's fair to say you won't be earning your spurs tomorrow. Sit, lad; let's talk." Daerald flopped bonelessly to the ground of the practice yard and began trying to work some of the knots out of his arms and legs.

"If you hoped to convince me I have a great deal to learn, you succeeded admirably."

"Like I said, you are not half bad. Full of piss and vinegar, like a boy your age ought to be, but not half bad. Your father's asked me to take a hand in your training at arms, so be prepared to be thrashed a few more times as you learn." Gawen groaned theatrically, and Daerald gave him an unsympathetic grin. "Hard training makes the real thing easier, and that's the god's own truth. I learned that in...

"The Greyjoy rebellion. You might have mentioned that a time or two when I was a lad of seven, holding a practice sword for the first time."

"Not for nothing; it stood me in good stead in the tournament at Lannisport..."

"Which you won after unhorsing Ser Jorah Mormont after breaking six lances. Yes, I remember that too."

"Still an impudent brat, I see."

"You would be disappointed were it otherwise. I hear you are to be married?"

"Aye, so 'tis said."

"And who might be the lucky lady?"

"Likely one of Lord Walder Frey's get; Lady Amereigh."

Gawen whistled. "A great lord's daughter."

"They say she was caught abed with three stableboys, and since word of that got out, Walder's had a devil of a time finding a bride for her."

"I imagine." Gawen laughed. "I hope you have the stamina for a lass with those appetites."

"Hah, what would you know about it, boy? Or did you learn to use your other sword at Stonehelm as well?"

Gawen blushed. "Well... no, not quite."

"Kissing games with willing marcher lasses?" Gawen blushed more, and Daerald laughed. "The marriage is no sure thing, of course. Old Lord Walder's a prickly bastard, and there are others interested in making their daughter the first lady of House Drake."

"Such as?"

"Marata Waters."

"The bastard of Claw Isle?"

"A pretty enough lass, and Lord Celtigar's fond of her. Then there's Lord Massey's third daughter..."

"A babe in arms..."

"And Lolys Stokeworth..."

"A half-wit."

"But from an old and noble house." Daerald shrugged. "A man must start somewhere. There's also a Lysene merchant's daughter; fair as a Valyrian with rather impressive... assets."

"You refer to her dowry, of course?"

"Well, that too."

"You, Ser Daerald, are no gentlemen," Gawen mocked in a high, somehow pretentious sounding falsetto.

"Aye, lad, that I'm not; just a dragon seed boy made good." Daerald sighed in mock sadness. "Easy enough for Ser Davos, a man grown and settled when he came to glory. I, on the other hand, have to find a wife befitting my station, and would you believe it but the people who hound me the most are my own bloody family. 'We have dragons and dragon-riders in our past, Daerald; you need a bride of good blood'. Seven hells."

"Well, you do have something Ser Davos does not; all ten fingers."

"Aye, true enough. And I only jest, lad; Davos is a good sort. Still, bloody marriage." Gawen laughed, and Daerald gave him a half-joking glare. "Laugh while you can, boy; it'll come for you soon enough. And it's not my marriage that worries me, truth to tell."

"Oh?" Gawen took note of a change in the tone of his arm's master and friend's voice.

"It's the Princess." Only Daerald still referred to Daenerys as 'The Princess', the same title he'd used for her since her birth.

"Daeni? Have they... has she..."

"Not yet, but the Queen has sent messengers to your father."

"I thought Joffrey was to be married to Rhaenys?"

"Not for the crown Prince lad; for Tommen."

"Tommen? But he's, what, just past his sixth name day?"

"Something like that. It'd be a betrothal only."

"But she can't marry... I mean..." Gawen was flustered, but finally came up with a logical objection. "The king would not allow that."

"Mayhaps, mayhaps not. Regardless, there's value in a marriage to her. Myself, I'd like to see her married to a man as would do right by her, eh?" Daerald gave Gawen a pointed look, and the boy blushed.

"I... yes, that would be good."

"Well then, we'll just have to see to it, won't we lad?"

"Yes," Gawen said, and even as he spoke, he felt determination crystallize inside him. "Yes we will."


	16. Book Two: Chapter 6 (Sansa)

**SANSA**

Sansa and Septa Mordane were making their way back from the day's lessons, when they saw two men further down the hallway, talking amongst themselves. One Sansa recognized as Lord Renly; the other was short, with a pointed beard and a silver streak in his hair, almost as old as her father; he wore a heavy cloak with a fur collar, fastened with a silver mockingbird, and he had the effortless manner of a high lord, though she still did not know him.

"Such a pity about the Lord Hand canceling the tourney" Renly was telling him. "Especially since you always knew how to turn a coin at those things."

"My dear Renly, my pockets are hardly the worst victims of Lord Stark's stinginess. After all, I never lack for opportunities..."

Sansa held Septa Mordane's arm, stopping them. "Child what is it?" Septa Mordane asked. "You know that it is rude to listen to conversations uninvited..."

Sansa turned to her teacher. "I only wanted to stop a moment, Septa. It's nothing else." She tried to smile innocently, but only got a look of firm disapproval. When Sansa turned her head again, she found that Lord Renly was walking away, and the unknown man was walking towards them.

"You must be one of her daughters," he said, upon approach. Sansa noticed that he had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did. "You have the Tully look."

She nervously thought what to say; "I apologize for eavesdroping my lord. I am sorry to hear there will not be a toruney..." Remembering her courtesies, "I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Lord..."

Septa Mordane quickly took a hand. "Sweet child, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the King's Small Council."

"Your mother was my queen of beauty once," the man said quietly. His breath smelled of mint. "You have her hair." His fingers brushed against her cheek as he stroked one auburn lock. Quite abruptly he turned and walked away.

After a moment of awkward silence, Sansa asked her leave of Septa Mordane, and made her way back to her chambers.

She found her direwold there, resting on the bed. "The prince will be leaving soon" she said to Lady; her animal yawned. "Everybody says there's going to be a great tourney to greet the Crown Prince shortly after his arrival; they are said to be a common occurance at the Eyrie." She set beside the animal, and stroked her fur. The court of Aunt Lysa, it was said, boasted at least one tourney a year, with challengers coming not only from across the Vale, but from the Riverlands, the Stormlands, and even as far south as Dorne.

"And I know that I would love to see that" Sansa said to her direwolf. "Wouldn't you?" Nothing could be more gallant, Sansa knew, then to see true knights prove their valor and skill, to see the victor crown his love with the wreath of love and beauty; she sighed at the thought.

As Sansa brushed, it occurred to her that Lady was the only real friend she had in King's Landing. Jeyne had kept her company enough in the first few weeks, but when father had sent Vayon Poole back to Winterfell, his daughter went with him. Since then, Sansa found that the queen had little interest in her; and though she and Jeyne intially were allowed to spend a good deal of time with Princess Myrcella, Cersei had become less generous with her daughter in the past fortnight. In night's of late, as she tried to fall asleep, Sansa found herself missing her mother, Robb, even Arya. And, of course, cousin Jon.

But her current thoughts were not in Winterfell. Sansa pictured the Eyrie, a beautiful castle seated high in the clouds, upon a mountaintop. She thought of Aunt Lysa, who Sansa imagined would look very much like her mother; she thought of her cousins, Rowena, who was just a year older, and said to have as hair as red as hers, and little Sweetrobin, who would be about Bran's age; then of Ser Bryden Tully, her mother's uncle and the Warden of the East. And then there was her aunt's ward; though officially, by fat King Robert's decree, without a title, she was still known (though, in King's Landing, by way of whispers) as Princesses Rhaenys, and was said to receive ever honor due the daughter of a crown prince.

As Sansa finished brushing Lady, she realized what she had to do. "We must ask Father" she said with determination. Lady said nothing to that, but Sansa thought she could see and seriousness and understanding in her wolf's eyes at these words. The two made their way out of her quarters, and sought out her father, the Lord Hand.

After some looking, they found he was visiting the Grand Maester, Pycelle. But as they approached the door, Sansa could hear voices. "… in hopes of raising Lord Jon's spirits. His love was fierce to see..." Sansa recognized Pycelle's voice.

He was talking to father, it seemed. "Did it seem to you that there was anything unnatural about Lord Arryn's death?"

"Unnatural?" The aged maester's voice was thin as a whisper. "No, I could not say so. Sad, for a certainty. Yet in its own way, death is the most natural thing of all, Lord Eddard. Jon Arryn rests easy now, his burdens lifted at last."

"This illness that took him, had you ever seen its like before, in other men?"

"Near forty years I have been Grand Maester of the Seven Kingdoms," Pycelle replied. "Under our good King Robert, and Aerys Targaryen before him, and his father Jaehaerys the Second before him, and even for a few short months under Jaehaerys's father, Aegon the Fortunate, the Fifth of His Name. I have seen more of illness than I care to remember, my lord. I will tell you this: Every case is different, and every case is alike. Lord Jon's death was no stranger than any other."

It was then that Sansa noticed Lady pushing her nuzzle at the door. "Lady, come to me!" she whispered... only to then hear the voices in the room fall silent. Moments later, the Lord of Winterfell had emerged, stern disapproval on his face.

"I-I'm sorry to interrupt Father, I was just looking to talk to you. I can come back later..."

Father only sighed at this. "It is fine daughter; tell me what it is you came to say."

Sasna gathered her courage; if she did not speak now, she might never get another chance. "I heard there is to be a royal delegation taking Prince Joffrey to visit the Eyrie, where Aunt Lysa and her family now are." She decided that this would best be stated plainly. "Father, I would like to go with them. To visit Aunt Lysa, Rowena, Robin, and her court..."

"The Eyrie is a long way off, child; it will take the prince and his men over a month just to travel there, and none know how long he intends to stay..."

"I know Father." She said it without hesitation. Because she did know. And when father looked at her, she knew that he knew as well.

"You wish to become your Aunt's ward." It was not a question. "You know that we cannot know how long you will be there. Travel between the kingdoms is dangerous enough, but the roads of the Vale are even less to be trifled with. There is no telling now when you could see me or your mother again."

 _I'm already away from Mother_ , Sansa might have said, but she held her tongue, replying instead by firm silence.

Her father sighed. "Very well Sansa; I will think on it. Even were I to give my leave, mind you, I would insist on your own northern protection guard, so think on that before you make such a commitment."

"I will" Sansa promised.

Maester Pycelle was making to exit the room at this point, and father made to accompany him. Sansa and Lady watched them walk down the hall for a time, before turning to each other. "Come now Lady," Sansa said smiling.


	17. Book Two: Chapter 7 (Sawwell)

**SAMWELL**

"It never gets any easier" Sam told himself, between his heavy breathing. The stairs he had been climbing started at the small fishing village, which was now taking the name of Westport, and crisscrossed the face of the cliffs overlooking the water and the town; at the top of the cliff sat the high hill, and the stairs continued, spiraling around until it reached the keep. As castles went, it was still fairly modest; by the looks of it, Sam thought it still looked more like a large wooden manse than a lord's home, though he could see the foundations for what would eventually become the stone towers. Sam had suggested a name for the new keep, which the new lord found agreeable; thus, it came to be called "Westwatch".

The keep was being built upon a ruin an ancient stronghold of the First Men, dating back to before the Starks held domain over what was now called Sea Dragon Point. It was thousands of years ago, before even the Andals came to Westeros, that the Starks brought down the Warg King and his allies, the children of the forest. When the skinchanger's last fortress fell, his sons were put to the sword, along with his animals and greenseers, while his daughters were taken as prizes by their conquerors. _Maybe it happened here, in these ruins_ Sam thought, _the last fortress to fall_. The new keep was being built around a high hill, topped by a weirwood circle that would serve as the new lord's godswood. Sam had been told those trees, and the eyes carved into them, were just as old, likely older; Sam wondered if those red maple eyes could see, as pious northmen claimed, and if they remembered those kings and wars from so long ago.

Sam stopped for a moment to catch his breath as he climbed the stairs. He still had a ways to climb before he could deliver the letters, which themselves had only just arrived to Westport by sea, to the keep's maester and lord. As he recuperated, Sam thought of how peculiar his position was; though he was the son of a proud noble family, and by law heir to his father's castle of Horn Hill, Samwell Tarly now found himself serving steward to this new keep and new lord, far to the north of home. And though this fate was part of no plan, somehow, he didn't expect his lord father would be too surprised by this development. Whatever pride his lord father might have felt at his birth had since vanished as early as he could remember.

As a boy, Sam loved to listen to music and make his own songs, to wear soft velvets, to play in the castle kitchen beside the cooks, drinking in the rich smells as he snitched lemon cakes and blueberry tarts. His passions were books and kittens and dancing, clumsy as he was. But he grew ill at the sight of blood, and wept to see even a chicken slaughtered. A dozen masters-at-arms came and went at Horn Hill, trying to turn Samwell into the knight his father wanted. The boy was cursed and caned, slapped and starved. One man had him sleep in his chainmail to make him more martial. Another dressed him in his mother's clothing and paraded him through the bailey to shame him into valor. He only grew fatter and more frightened, until father's disappointment turned to anger and then to loathing. One time, two men came to the castle, warlocks from Qarth with white skin and blue lips. They slaughtered a bull aurochs and made Sam bathe in the hot blood, but it didn't make him brave as they'd promised. Instead, he got sick and retched. Father had them scourged.

Finally, after three girls in as many years, mother gave birth to Dickon, her second son. From that day, the Lord of Horn Hill ignored his eldest son, devoting all his time to the younger boy, a fierce, robust child more to his liking. Samwell had known several years of sweet peace with his music and his books.

Until the dawn of his fifteenth name day, when he had been awakened to find his horse saddled and ready. Three men-at-arms had escorted him into a wood near Horn Hill, where his father was skinning a deer. "You are almost a man grown now, and my heir," father said, his long knife laying bare the carcass as he spoke. "You have given me no cause to disown you, but neither will I allow you to inherit the land and title that should be Dickon's. Heartsbane must go to a man strong enough to wield her, and you are not worthy to touch her hilt. So I have decided that you shall this day announce that you wish to take the black. You will forsake all claim to your brother's inheritance and start north before evenfall.

"If you do not, then on the morrow we shall have a hunt, and somewhere in these woods your horse will stumble, and you will be thrown from the saddle to die . . . or so I will tell your mother. She has a woman's heart and finds it in her to cherish even you, and I have no wish to cause her pain. Please do not imagine that it will truly be that easy, should you think to defy me. Nothing would please me more than to hunt you down like the pig you are." His arms were red to the elbow as he laid the skinning knife aside.

"So. There is your choice. The Night's Watch" - he reached inside the deer, ripped out its heart, and held it in his fist, red and dripping - "or this."

Perhaps his lord father had planned for his eldest son to live out his days with fair honor enough as a black brother; though it also had crossed Sam's mind that he might have meant for the Watch to do the killing for him, by having the recruits beat him to death, or throwing him out beyond the wall to die of exposure. Whatever his father's plans, they failed when something unprecedented, or near enough, happened, and the Night's Watch rejected him. Sam wondered at times if he ought to be more ashamed of such ignomimity, but the truth was, coward as he was, he had been relieved of it, and of the Stark lord's offer to serve him at his new keep.

Sam finished his climb up the stairs of the cliff, and made his way up the stairs spiraling the high hill. Finally, he reached the gates of Westwatch. Sam heard the call from atop the gate, "How fares things, Southron?" The locals had taken to calling him that, being as he was the only man there from south of the neck; even the maester, freshly arrived from Oldtown, blended better with these northern men than Tarly could, who even with his responsibilities still nervously stuttered everytime he heard the name. "I-It goes well, guardsman. I am returned with le-letters and tidings. From Pyke."

The guards opened the gates, and Sam made his way into the keep, and to his new Lord, Jon Stark of the West. He found the lord breaking fast alone in his hall, save for the black direwolf resting at his feet, as had become his custom. Other men of the castle found that queer; Sam understood that, as his own father had always told him the value of dining with allies, advisors, or subjects. But then Sam also knew all too well the comforts of dining alone, especially when something weighed on the mind that he dared not discuss with his father or family. _And what weighs on his mind, I wonder?_ Wonder he did, but he did not ask; Tarly or no, Sam knew he was his lord's steward, and it was not his place to pry into such private matters.

"Lord Stark, a message from Pyke. It just sailed in to Westport earlier this morning."

"Thank you, Sam." Jon took the parchment, broke the seal, and read. And then, after a few seconds, the Lord of Westwatch said something that caught Sam completely by surprise. "Hm, Asha Greyjoy is asking about my hand in marriage." The casual way Jon said it surprised Sam even more than the words itself, as though he had been expecting something like it; true, Jon Stark was nephew to the Lord of Winterfell, and if it had been any other house, in the North or the South, Sam would have thought nothing of it. But the Greyjoys...

Steward or no, Sam felt compelled to speak. "Lord Stark, did you say Asha Greyjoy? The daughter of Balon Greyjoy? The Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands? The one who once called himself a king?"

To each of these questions, Jon Stark gave a patient nod of his head.

"My lord, this is... this is unexpected, is it not?"

"It is some good news, yes" Jon said, his voice quiet and distant. "A marriage alliance with the Iron Islands could prove quite beneficial to our new towns and keeps, fostering trade between the two."

"This is true, yes my lord, it's just that... I had always heard that the Ironborn, and Balon Greyjoy in particular, had a special contempt for the other high lords. 'Greenlanders' they call us. I had also come to understand this Asha may well be the heir to Pyke, which means her husband..."

"Would be Lord of the Iron Isles as well, yes."

Sam was even more confused. "Yes, but... Well, my lord, doesn't it seem odd that a man who tried to claim himself a King who consent to a man he calls 'greenlander' being his heir?"

Jon Stark said nothing for a time; if he was angry, or concerned, or had any reaction to what his steward had deigned to say to him, his face gave no hint of it. Finallly, he softly asked, "Sam, do you think this match ill advised?"

"My lord it is not for me to say." Sam felt he could not say that emphatically enough. "But, it's just that... well, your reaction seems..."

And once again Jon Stark did something unexpected, and smiled, giving a small laugh. "You're wondering why I'm not more surprised by this?"

Sam found himself giving a sigh of relief. "It's just... Well, unless you were expecting a letter like this..."

Sam found himself giving a chuckle at the thought, but Jon's face became serious at that. Sam gulped. For awhile Jon said nothing, as he seemed to study his steward's face, considering his answer. _I've overstepped my bounds. He's going to scold me, possibly even dismiss me from his service. Gods damn Sam, why do you always..._

But then, Jon found his question. "Do you think you're loyal to your family, Sam? To House Tarly, I mean?"

"My lord?" Once again, it was the last thing Sam had expected his lord to say. _Perhaps I should come to expect that._

"I mean to say, if my house and House Tarly found themselves on opposite sides of a war, where would your loyalty lie?"

"My lord, I don't know what you mean. It's all one realm, is it not?"

The lord's expression remained as it had, piercing his steward, looking for something Sam could not say. But, after seeming to consider his response, Jon smiled. "Well yes, I suppose it is. Thank you Sam; that will be all for now."

"A-As my lord commands." Sam gave a nod of his head, and left the hall.


	18. Book Two: Chapter 8 (Catelyn)

**CATELYN**

Catelyn could not avert her eyes from the parchment; she read it over and over, trying to find some way to disbelieve what was written, but it was to no avail. She could still hear the raven who had carried the message flapping its wing and its talons scratching, as it perched atop the chair. The words before her tore into her, just as she could hear the ravens talons tearing into the wood: _Lord Hoster Tully is dying._

"Mother?" The voice of her eldest son broke her from the trance. "Mother, what is the news from Riverrun?"

"My father is ill" she said softly, turning to see Robb, his direwolf Silver at his feet. "My brother writes to ask if I might find a way to come south, and see my father before he..." Her voice trailed off.

Catelyn thought of Ned and Bran in King's Landing, of Lysa and Sansa in the Eyrie, and of her children here in Winterfell. And she looked at her son. " _You must govern the North in my stead_ ", her husband had told her. Since then, she had made Robb part of her councils, just as her husband had asked; but he was still only a boy, how could she leave him to govern on his own? _And can I bear to stay? To fail in my duty as a daughter, to let my father die alone?_ And yet, her father himself had told her and Lysa on their wedding day that their duties to their husband and children were now greater than to him. But thinking on that only made her feel worse.

Lady Stark went to the window, and looked out over the yard. There she could see her younger daughter playing with her wolf, Nymeria, and the boy she was said to marry. Jorah Glover was somewhat older than Bran (though younger than Arya), but much like him in his laughter and playfulness. Arya had been cold to the heir to Deepwood Motte at first, when he came to Winterfell as a ward; his eyes had shown fear when he first laid eyes on the direwolves, and Maester Luwin had initially held that the animals should be kept in their kennels for part of the day so that the two betrothed children could get to know one another. But the boy had proven brave for his age, and when he saw Arya resented him for Nymeria's captivity, he insisited that he wanted to play with the wolves as well, and get to know them as well. Arya warmed up to him quickly after that, as Cat had hoped she would, and her two young children and Jorah Glover now spent much of their day in the company of the direwolves.

 _She still refuses to act the lady, that one_ Cat thought. _It is good that she has a good husband arranged already, and is already getting along with him so well._ With Sansa and Septa Mordane gone, Cat could find no way of making Arya resume needlework classes; her newest pastime was bothering the master at arms for archery lessons, and Cat was content to indulge her in this. After all, Arya was a willfull girl, much like Ned's sister, as he was fond of saying, and those sorts of fancies were things Cat had long since become accustomed to. Still, Arya found ways to make her mother concerned; there were days Maester Luwin told Catelyn of dreams her daughter had the night before, of turning into her wolf, prowling about the godswood, or becoming a weirwood tree, or of a some crow with three eyes. _She needs me to stay as well_ Cat told herself, _as does Rickon, and Robb..._

She heard the latter's voice behind her; "It's serious then? He's..."

"Yes." She would not turn, less her son see her eyes. _I must not weep, not here._

When she managed to compose herself she turned, only to find Robb had come to her, and she found herself embraced, in her son's arms. And with that her will broke, and the tears came.

They stood there, in each other's arms, Cat deaf to all sounds but her own sobs. Then she heard the words she had tried to keep her son from saying: "You should go to him."

She wanted to tell him no, that she must stay here and advise him, to help him govern at Winterfell, that the responsibilities of being lord was still too great for his young shoulders. But she could not find the right words, and so only looked at him.

Her son continued, "You can take Arya and Rickon with you; no doubt they'll be happy to see their mother's childhood home."

"It was your home once too." The reply seemed to come of its own volition; Cat could think of no reason she would say this to Robb now. "Though you were too young to remember."

She looked up at her son, who smiled. "Don't worry about me, mother. I'll have Ser Rodrick and Maester Luwin here to advise me, and I will not lack for company. Already, Cley Cerwyn practically wards here, he visits so often." He looked down, and Cat could feel that the wolf was licking her hand, which had fallen to her side. "And of course, there's Silver. And I suppose there's cousin Jon, though he's a fortnight ride's away and has kept busy with new his keep." He kissed his mother on the forehead. "I'll be fine."

Catelyn could think of nothing to say to that. _He has grown so much_ she thought somberly, _perhaps it is time he learned to rule alone._ She gave herself time to answer, but when she saw her son had the truth of it, she said she would ride. "I'll speak to Maester Luwin about making the arrangements."

And over the next few days, they were made. Catelyn would leave with Arya, Rickon, and Jorah Glover, as well as the direwolves Nymeria and Shaggydog, and Ser Rodrick and his men would ride with them as far as Castle Cerwyn before returning to Winterfell. From there, Ser Kyle Condon and others would join the party, guarding the ladies and children on the ride south; they would travel to Riverrun by way of Moat Cailin and the Twins. Lord Medgar Cerwyn had also asked, and Cat consented, that his daughter, Jonelle, would accompany them no doubt hoping to find a good husband for her among the river lords. Part of her felt guilty that such an expedition was being formed simply so that she could visit her father, but Cat told herself that they were simply doing their duty just as she was.

On the day they departed, Catelyn visited the Sept one last time to offer prayers for her son she was to leave behind.


	19. Book Two: Chapter 9 (Sandor)

**SANDOR**

(written by AJ Nolte)

 _"If my love were a singing rill,_

 _running down a grassy hill,_

 _I'd sit by her and drink my fill..."_

The singer, Sandor reflected, was not particularly good, but judging from the looks the ladies of the vale were giving him, his skills were not the main reason for his success. Sandor exchanged a quick glance with Rowena, who gave him an impish grin and mouthed the words ' _dreamy eyes_ ' at him. Sandor tried not to laugh. Rowena was his closest friend in the world; closer, in some ways than his sister. Sometimes, he was almost frightened by their ability to finish one another's sentences and know exactly what the other was thinking.

 _"If my love were a tall tall tower,_

 _then by her feet I'd build a bower,_

 _and fill it with the sweetest flowers."_

The singer's harp fell silent, to a chorus of sighing from the vale ladies. Sandor caught Rowena's eyes, and made a mock gagging face. The Lady of the Vale fought down a laugh, turning it into a delicate, lady-like cough.

"Will you give us another song, good minstrel?" Princess Rhaenys asked, giving the man a sultry smile.

"Of course, My Princess."

"I regret," Rowena said with polished courtesy, "that I cannot stay, for I must light a candle to the Seven for my father. Will you excuse me, Your Grace?"

"Of course, dear," Rhaenys said, with courtesy of her own that thinly masked her tone of triumph. Rowena's departure would make Rhaenys the center of attention for all the ladies and, more importantly in her mind, young vale knights and lords, gathered at the Eyrie.

"Sandor, will you attend me?"

"Of course, My Lady; with Her Grace's permission?"

Rhaenys gave him a distracted nodd; the son of Ser Geremy Frey and Lady Carolei Waynewood was not only too young and too low-born to be of interest to her, but also something of a surrogate younger brother. _We were close once, but she has spent less and less time with my mother, and more with her own, as the years have gone bye. Still, I hope it never comes to an outright breech between Rhaenys and Rowena; I would be torn apart faster than a marrow bone is destroyed by two of Lord Arryn's hounds._ Sandor stood, banishing the image of the slender, petite, dark Rhaenys and the tall, fair, boistrous and, if he was any judge of women, soon to be rather buxom Rowena ripping chunks out of his innocent flesh. Rowena grasped his arm lightly, and he led her away as the singer began another lament.

"The Ballad of Alyssa's Tears again? Seven bloody hells!" Rowena muttered. "It's a water fall, Other's take it. Who writes a pitiful ballad of lost love about a bloody waterfall?"

"The singers of the Vale, of course. Where is your sense of poetry, Rowena; your sense of romance?"

"I'm going to hit you. Besides, I haven't seen you mooning sorrowfully around Alyssa's tears."

"Well, My Lady, if I'm to be perfectly honest... it makes me have to piss every time I stand near it."

"Which hardly makes for a song, does it."

"I could probably come up with something...

 _Sorrowfully, her tears did flow,_

 _as she pined for her lost fellow,_

 _til came House Frey's champion knight,_

 _and turned her tears to yellow._ "

Rowena burst out laughing and pulled him into a fierce hug. Even six months ago, Sandor would have felt nothing but fraternal feelings as a result. Now though...

"Sunny Sandor, always quick with a smile and a jape. What would I do without you?"

"Die horribly, I expect," he said, trying to cover the fluttering feeling in his stomach that came over him now, every time he stood so near to her.

Rowena's face softened and she gave him a sad smile. "I mean it, Sandor. Since father's death I... have not been myself." She hugged him harder, and Sandor felt the flutters multiply. "I cannot tell you what a comfort your friendship has been." She released him, and Sandor suppressed a sigh of relief.

"I know it's been hard, Row, and the succession worries you."

Rowena snorted. "The succession does not worry me. The decision over who exactly the vale lords, and ladies, will choose to be my Regent, and my future husband, does worry me. The fact that Robert's fits have not gotten better worries me. The fact that my foster sister insists on making calf eyes at that handsome black-haired armorer's apprentice... what's his name..."

"Gendry?"

"That's the one. Well... that also worries me. Rhaenys' has... Dornish attitudes... which may not amuse the crowned Prince, who by the way is coming to visit and who is, by all reports, a horrid little beast. All of that worries me, but what worries me most is…" Rowena fought down tears.

"The rumor about your father." She nodded, and let the tears flow. Sandor patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. "It is only a rumor, Row."

"I know that!" Rowena fought to get herself under control, then gave Sandor an apologetic glance. "Your pardon, Sandor; I'm out of sorts. I know it is only a rumor, but it has the ring of truth." Her green eyes met Sandor's hazel, and there was an unmistakeable element of fire in them. "And if those rumors are true—if someone murdered my father—I will make them pay." For the first time as he looked at Rowena, Sandor saw not the girl who had been his play-fellow and confidant in childhood, or the budding young woman whose presence sometimes caused uncomfortable stirrings in his loins, but the Lady of the Vale she would become. Sunny Sandor, they called him, and Smiling Sandor, but there was no smile on his face as he went to one knee, and took her hand in his.

"If you find there is truth to the rumors, My Lady, then by the gods, I shall help you collect the debt."

...

"Balance," Ser Roland Storm said laconically, as Sandor pulled himself to his feet for the third time. "What have I bloody told you about your balance, boy?"

"The back foot is the strong foot, and keep centered."

"You understand, at least; execution is another matter. Try the movement again; let me look at you." Sandor did as instructed, and the Bastard of Nightsong frowned.

"Move your toes to the right... there, that's it. Now, hold that position and give ten strikes at the practice dummy." Sandor hid a groan, but did as instructed, sliding forward, striking the shield of the practice dummy, then sliding back. After the tenth time, Ser Roland nodded ever so slightly, and a panting Sandor drew a dipper of water from the barrel in the practice yard, slucing it over his head.

"Shall I... try one more time... Ser Roland?"

"Yes." Grimly, Sandor faced off against his arms-master.

"Salute." Ser Roland called out, and Sandor brought the blade to his forehead. "Guard." Sandor's practice blade assumed the guard position. "Lay on!" Sandor came at the bigger man, keeping his feet this time. Their blades clashed and bound, as Sandor tried to strike Ser Roland with the flat, the quillons or the pommel. This time, he lasted twice as long before Ser Roland's pommel tapped him just below the throat, a blow that would have cracked armor at full strength and with a true battle sword.

"Point to you, Ser Roland." Sandor turned and saluted his father as he came out onto the practice yard."

"Aye, but not a bad effort," the kingsguard knight bore what Sandor recognized as a slight smile on his pock-marked face.

"Not bad, though the footwork still troubles him, I see?" Geremy gave his son a sympathetic grin. "My footwork was terrible at your age. Of course, the arms master at the twins was not the teacher Ser Roland is."

"I will fix it, father."

"In time. Now, you'd best run and get cleaned up; Lady Waynewood is arriving later this afternoon, and has asked you to attend her." Sandor made a face, and Ser Geremy cuffed him affectionately on the back of the head. "Your mother would tell you not to make that face lest it get stuck that way."

"She stopped making that claim last year when I asked the maesters about it."

Geremy's face turned serious. "Then, stop making that face because Lady Waynewood's patronage will be essential to your future success in life, and you need to make a good impression."

"I thought I was to squire with Ser Roland, father?"

"You are, lad," the kingsguard knight cut in, "but what'll you do after, eh?"

"You've a chance to be more than your Frey cousins Sandor; more than a hedge knight."

"I'll serve the Lady Rowena."

"Mayhaps, but friendship can be a fickle thing. Family, less so." _Says the man with Walder Frey for a father? I know what he means but..._

"Always good to have options, lad," Ser Roland put in.

Sandor sighed. "Very well father, and Ser Roland, I will go let mother try to make me presentable for Her Ladyship." Ser Geremy slapped Sandor affectionately on the shoulder. "Good lad, off with you. Now then, Ser Roland, Lady Lysa wished to know if you have heard word from Ser Preston Greenfíeld about Prince Joffrey's arrival, and wished me to discuss the arrangements for his party's security when they arrive." Recognizing the dismissal, Sandor scampered toward the heart of the Eyrie. As he rounded a corner, he heard a soft sound coming from the forge. It sounded very much like a familiar giggle. With a sigh, Sandor walked on, knowing what he would find. _Others take it, Rhaenys, you are not in Dorne._ The Princess had taken to aping the customs she believed her mother's homeland had: associating freely with bastards like Mya Stone, and taking a series of casual, usually discrete lovers. _Why the bloody armorer's apprentice, and why now?_ He loved the Princess like a sister, but there were times... Sandor hid a sigh, and ran on.

...

"Carolei."

"My Lady?" Carolei Waynewood curtsied elegantly to Lady Anya Waynewood, and Sandor made a credible bow to the head of his mother's house. Beside him, Lysa fiddled with her fingers nervously, and Sandor put a gentle hand on her shoulder and shook his head. Lysa, fortunately for her, bid fair to look more like their Crakehal grandparents than either the women on her mother's or her father's side. She was already a plumply pretty child with soft brown hair and pleasant features. Sandor knew what Lady Waynewood saw when she looked at him: a tall straight boy, just beginning to enter awkward adolescence; a blend of horse-faced Waynewood and weezle-faced Frey features that somehow came together in a package that was neither; an easy smile that, or so he had been told, turned his face from pleasantly homely to something approaching handsome.

"Sandor, Lysa, you look well."

"Thank you, My Lady," Sandor answered for both of them. Lysa shot him a grateful look, and he winked at her. His little sister was shy, particularly in the presence of powerful adults.

"And this is my ward Herrold Hardyng." Lady Waynewood pointed to a tall young man who stood straight as a blade. He had a mop of sandy-blonde hair and blue eyes in a handsome face. "He is to complete his period as a squire under Ser Geremy's tutilage."

 _So, this is Harry the Almost Heir, the man to whom Lady Anya would see Lady Rowena betrothed. I shall try not to hate him, for the sake of our family._

"Where is Ser Stote," Harrold said coolly. "I was told he would greet us here."

"Herrold, you will show Ser Geremy respect!" Lady Anya's tone was as cold as the glaciers that covered the peaks of the mountains of the moon.

"My father is discussing security arrangements for the upcoming visit of the crowned prince with Ser Roland Storm," Sandor cut in. "His duties as knight of the gate keep him quite busy, as you shall doubtless soon see, My Lord." Lady Waynewood gave Sandor a slight, approving nod, and Harrold flushed slightly.

"How long will you stay with us, My Lady?" Carolei asked.

"At least a fortnight. I wish to provide my counsel to Lady Rowena in her time of grief, and of course, to make my voice heard on this ridiculous business of the succession." Lady Anya sniffed. "What those fools of Bellmore, Hunter and Corbray think they will achieve is beyond me. Do they mean to posture on behalf of a boy of six who will doubtless forget all they have said on his behalf, if he reaches his maturity?"

"The Lady Lysa..."

"The Lady Lysa is a fool if she thinks her sickly son should take precedence over her young, healthy, doubtless fertile daughter. The Lord of Strongsong can prattle on about the 'laws of succession' all he likes, as if septons, maesters, or the Night's Watch don't exist, but we know better, and so does she." Lady Carolei said nothing, but Sandor knew his mother well enough to see the anger she fought to hide. Lady Carolei was Lysa Arryn's close confidant, who kept her secrets and held her trust, and she did not like to hear ill spoken of her friend. Still, however tactless she might have been, Sandor agreed with Lady Waynewood. Robert Arryn was a pleasant enough boy, but very sickly, and had shown no interest in ruling.

"I am sure the lords will welcome your views, My Lady," Sandor interjected. "and you will most likely still be here when the Crowned Prince arrives."

"Doubtless." Lady Waynewood sniffed. "Will you show me to our chambers, Lady Carolei? I grow weary. Sandor, please take Herrold to meet your father." Carolei and Sandor both bowed, and Sandor's mother and Lady Waynewood departed. Lysa curtsied to Harry the Almost Heir, then retreated with what Sandor felt was indecent haste.

"Sandor is it?" Harrold gave him a considering glance, then a smile. "I suppose I should not have insulted your father's family."

Sandor shrugged. "I have heard the nickname before."

"You are a cool one. I fear my mouth is quicker than my brain."

Sandor grinned easily. "I have had moments like that."

"Good. So, will you tell me of the Lady Rowena?"

"Well, she is very fair, but you doubtless know that. She is clever, and does not suffer fools. And since her father died, she has... changed."

"I imagine." Harrold shrugged. "Grandmother is set on the marriage between myself and the lady."

"And you?"

"I hardly know her." Harrold sighed. "Lady Anya... might have caught me abed with a maid at Ironoaks, and determined to send me to the Eyrie to court Lady Rowena. Pity; the maid was a pretty little thing, and gods the things she could do."

 _I will not hate this oafish fool who hopes to court my best friend. I will not, no matter how tempting._

...

"Psst, Sandor!" He heard the hissing whisper, recognized Rowena's voice, and ducked into the storage room from which she beckoned.

"What are you doing here?"

"The royal party should be visible from here; I hoped to get a look at them before the formal reception."

"Curious, I thought you might be hiding from a certain handsome, sandy-haired knight?"

Rowena made a face. "If you are referring to Harry the Oaf, I have it on good authority he's in the tilt yard with Ser Roland and your father. Now hush, I think I see them!"

Sandor crowded next to her in the narrow window looking down from the hights of the Eyrie to the mountain below. Dimly, he saw the glint of metal on the mountain path from the watch castles up to the gate. "I see them too. It looks as if they are past Sky, but it is hard to make out much from here."

Rowena nodded. "I can just see their banner: black gold and... red, with a lion and stag." Rowena snorted. "What I've heard about the Lannisters growing over proud is true, it would seem. I can just see... yes, that yellow-haired figure near the front of the column must be the prince."

"And who rides with him?"

"From what mother has told me, my cousin Sansa Stark is among them, guarded by a group of fierce northmen. Lancel Lannister and Tyrek Lannister, who are cousins to the king. Tyrek's father was close to my late father, as I recall. And your cousin Tion Frey, the son of Emmon Frey and Lady Genna Lannister."

"A pride of lions, all be it at least one of them of a stotely cast, but precious few stags."

"They say Stannis' son Gawen attends his father at Dragonstone. For my part, I am as surprised not to see any representatives of House Tyrell. They have been the chief antagonists of the Lannisters at court of late, coming in the train of Lord Renly, the king's brother."

"And why Lady Sansa?"

"Lord Eddard sent word to mother that his daughter wished to visit her aunt and cousins in the Eyrie. It may be as simple as that, or then again, it may be a maneuver on the Hand's part." Rowena shrugged. "Who can say for certain. At any rate, we've stood here gawking long enough; time to go meet the royal party, I suppose."

"You seem less than overjoyed at the prospect of meeting your future liege lord."

Rowena made a face. "By all reports, Joffrey makes Harry the Oaf seem a paragon by comparison. For all his thoughtlessness, I do not think Harrold Hardyng is an evil man, do you?"

"No," Sandor said slowly, "I do not think he is."

"Nor I. But from letters I've received from father, I'm less sure of Joffrey." Rowena sighed. "Then too, I also wonder how truly Dornish my foster sister is. They have… long memories."

"I don't follow."

"That is probably for the best." Rowena nodded bruskly. _She grows into her future inheritance more with every day_ , thought Sandor, not without a pang of sorrow. "Enough wol-gathering; let us go greet our royal guest."

...

Sandor and Rowena made their way to a window overlooking the yard below where the crown's host was gathering.

He could make out a girl about his age, with auburn hair and in a dress lined with grey, surrounded by rough looking men carrying Northern sigils. "That would be your cousin, Sansa." There was also three boys talking and laughing together; two had hair of gold, the other's was stringy and brown. "That would be _my_ cousion, Tion Frey, speaking with _his_ cousins, Lancel and Tyrek Lannister. And that's... hold on, what... ?"

For a moment, Sandor had thought that another Lannister boy had joined the group; that is, until he saw the stranger's face, a jutting forehead, covered with hair of blonde mixed with black, and clearly not a child, but a dwarf.

Rowena was just as surprised as he was. "Is that... Tyrion Lannister? The queen's brother?"

"You didn't mention he was coming."

"Mother didn't mention him; I can't say why..."

The sound of applause echoing from below cut her off, and Sandor looked back down to see the Crown Prince himself coming forward from the crowd, all smiles and gallantry, making his way to Rhaenys; she was greeting him on the stairs, which happened to be just below the window Sandor and Rowena were watching from.

At first, the meeting went exactly as Sandor expected it would - the dragon princess greeted the stag prince with a kiss on the cheek, and he chivalrously returned the affection; each spoke some words to each other, for all to hear, of how they were glad to meet their betrothed, and each spoke of how they hoped to bring the other one happiness. "Only one thing stays my heart" Rhaenys was saying "is that we still have a long journey to King's Landing before we can be married. Such is my happiness the thought of being yours bring me."

This too, as far as Sandor could tell, was to be expected, but Prince Joffrey's response was not: "I feel the same way my love. That is why I have decided to make you the happiest girl alive." He turned to the assembled guests: "It is my decree that my betrothed and I shall not travel to King's Landing to be married. Rather, we shall wed here, on the mountain of the Eyrie."

Sandor did not know what to make of this; when he looked toward the Small Steward to see his reaction, he saw his father looking down at the smiling Imp of Lannister. And even from high above, over the clamor and cheers of the noble crowd, he managed to make out what the dwarf was saying: "Well, Ser Geremy, it sounds like you have a wedding to plan."


	20. Book Two: Chapter 10 (Brusco)

**BRUSCO**

In the dream, he was Stevron. Though he was in the Red Keep, it wasn't the location which made him Stevron; he had worn many identities in his life - Sharys, Brusco the Mummer, the Lackwit, the Dragon's Fool - each a mask that doubled as a face, and all had their own feel to them, their own weight, their own texture. And in this dream, he felt again like Stevron.

Walking through the halls, he came across the doors to the hall with the Iron Throne; of their own accord, they opened upon his approach. In one moment, he saw an old man sitting atop the throne in the distance; in the next, he was before him again, the old, mad Targaryen, a screaming blood curtling laugh booming from his disgusting smile. _No, he's dead_ Stevron thought, _he's dead, I saw him die!_

"Oh you did, did you?" Aerys taunted him. "Well, let's take a look and see about _that_ -" The king opened his robe, revealing the gaping wound in his chest that Ser Jaime's sword had left, blood and smoke pouring out, drenching the iron chair. His crazed eyes met Stevron's; he must have found his fool's reaction amusing, because at that he fell back into his chair cackling, as fluids and flames sprayed out from him, drenching Stevron red and filling him with the smell of sulfur.

In the blink of an eye, Stevron saw some strange shape spring out of the old man's chest, and fly toward the ceiling. Before he could even think to look up, he saw something else emerge from the fiery wound... a dragon. Thin, pale, and small to be sure, but a dragon nonetheless; he saw the creature claw it's way through the bloody skin of the old man. Moments later, his sister emerged as well, a dragon smaller still, but healthier, with black stripes and already with horns growing on her head. The two beasts ripped apart the corpse as they made their way out; each spread their wings, and flew.

When Stevron looked up to find them, he saw not two, but five dragons, and all of them fully grown, ferocious. Two of them looked like larger versions of the beasts who had grown out of the mad king; another was tinged sand brown, with scales of a stoney texture and eyes of moon blue; another still was covered in fur, his jaw reminiscent of some wild dog, smelling of salt and rust; and the last Stevron could not see as well, but it must have been black, as it blended so seamlessly into the shadows.

For a time, the dragons simply flew, dancing with each other across the cloudless sky; but before too long, they descended back to the earth. When Stevron looked down again, he saw he was somewhere the Westerosi countryside. And it was burning. In front of him, he saw what was once a tavern or inn reduced to ash and ruin; in the distance, he saw fields of wheat ablaze, black smoke filling the night sky.

As he looked further down, Stevron saw he was surrounded by dead bodies. For a moment, he was overcome with horror; but just as quickly as it came, the horror gave way to confusion, as he saw the corpses were all dressed in fool's garb. One costume was gold; another, green; another grey; and there were many more besides. Some of the dead were young; some were old. All had their faces burned to some extent, and their mouths sliced open, giving each of the corpses a red smile, teeth drenched in blood. Though the faces were beyond recognition, Stevron felt they were oddly familiar. _Am I among them?_ he wondered; strangely, he could not be sure of that.

In all of this, he had forgotten to be afraid. He did not remember until after looking up, and seeing the flames closing around him. And even then, his terror was second to an overwhelming sense of self-loathing...

It was to that feeling that Brusco awoke. Tearing the sheets from his face, he could see that daylight was already creeping its way though his windows. Only in the somber light of the dawn was Brusco able to reflect on his dream, and realize that the field of strange dead men was what scared him above all else. _After all, what worse fate could befall a man than to become a corpse in motley?_

He heard an uncertain knock at the door; "Master Brusco? A-Are you alright?" It was Bradamar; initially brought to his home as a ward, the lad was now, for all intents and purposes, what the Westerosi would call a "page" or a "squire". True, Brusco had enough money to pay for servants, but with all the talk and papers that so often happened in Brusco's presence... well, he found some the ways of the land to the west more prudent, and one of them was allowing himself to be waited upon by an nine year old boy.

"It was nothing lad, only... I was only waking." He threw off the sheets, and stood. "It's already dawn, I see. Do you have my bath and clothes ready?"

"Nearly so, Master Brusco."

"Good. And does the king have any guests today?"

"For supper, Master Brusco; there is... um, I don't recall all the names..."

"That is fine, Bradamar; for now, just finish preparing my bath. Oh, and has the king already broken fast?"

"No Master Brusco, His Grace still sleeps."

 _Makes sense; the young dragon was more drunk than I was_ , Brusco seemed to recall. "In that case..."

"I have already told the kitchens, Master Brusco; you and His Grace will be breaking fast together."

"Very good, Bradamar. You may go now."

…

As he walked into the great hall of his manse later that morning, Brusco found Viserys had begun without him, breaking his fast, as the household often did, on sardines fried in pepper oil. _At least he didn't insisit on Westerosi food_ , the host reflected, as the man who would be king licked the spicy substance from his fingers. Though by no means poor, Brusco's resources were not limitless; when the boy had first arrived at his home, he often found himself reminding his guest to eat local, less expensive meals where possible, and that more expensive meals were best saved for lavishing upon important guests.

Viserys looked up, and greeted his host with a smile. "Ah, good morrow my friend" he called, making a grand gesture with his sardine. "Bradamar tells me that we are to be meeting with representatives of the Iron Bank for dinner tonight."

 _Good of him to recall._ "That is so, your Grace."

Viserys gave a mischievous grin; "Will I have my army after tonight?" The exiled prince asked it in a playful way, Brusco knew, but it bothered him all the same. _He only asks to annoy me_ he had to remind himself; the man seated before him was still leagues better than the earnestly impatient boy who had come home with him to Braavos years earlier.

"No your Grace, there will be papers and contracts to sign after tonight." _Though the day is approaching_ , he might have said; negotiations with the Iron Bank were for the most part were complete, with only a few formalities left before the conspiracy to put Viserys on the Iron Throne could be set in earnest motion. "Has Lord Connington shown himself yet today?"

Viserys laughed; "Not as yet. Wherever he is, he's already managed to fill himself with more drink than we managed last night."

Jon Connington was the other man who accompanied Viserys to Braavos. At first, he had been, by all appearances, as diligent an adviser and servant as a king could ask for, much less an exiled one. But even by then, Brusco had learned the truth - that Connington was, in fact, working for the Prince of Dorne, who were plotting to bring back not Viserys, but his niece, to the Iron Throne. Over the years, Brusco had used this knowledge to his benefit, slowly gaining power over the exiled lord, until he had turned Jon into an informant against the Martells, making Viserys privy to all Doran's secret scheming; in keeping with this, Jon Connington was named Master of Whispers to King Viserys III, where before he had been his Hand in all but name. _That position now belongs to me_ , Brusco thought, not without pride. He liked to imagine the Mad King raving in some hell at the prospect of his fool being his son's right hand man.

These machinations came at a cost, however, chiefly borne by Connington himself, as he relapsed into his old drinking habits. In recent months, he came to attend his supposed king less and less, spending more and more of his time away, drinking away his health and salary in the inns and brothels by the shipyards. _We may have to deal with him in time_ Brusco would reflect, from time to time; _a master of whispers who's often drunk in public... well, whatever is done, that's something that won't end well._

There were two other men serving in this Small Council in Exile - the Master of Ships, Oro Tendyris, was, truth be told, nothing more than a simple merchant who owned a few ships and knew how to get a few more in a pinch, if need be. Noho Nestoris was Master of Coin; a Braavosi lawyer by trade, his was perhaps the most astute mind that Brusco ever had the pleasure of meeting. _He very well might be Viserys' Hand instead of me_ , Brusco thought, _had he been the one to present the plan._ But he had not yet commited himself to the cause then, and so Viserys came to call it "Brusco's plan".

Whoever the plan's author, it was several fold: first, convince the Iron Bank to agree to a conditional loan to Viserys for the purpose of hiring and paying sellswords. The first of those conditions were the Iron Throne would have to default on their massive credit to the Bank, or else the Bank would have to see repayment by the Realm as being in danger; Brusco knew this much was an inevitability, and when the time came, his agents would be able to accelerate the process. The second condition was on Viserys himself - he would need to acquire a sufficent number of Westerosi bannermen, effectively requiring one of the greater lord paramount families to support him; in effect, Viserys needed to marry the right woman. His niece Rhaenys would do the trick, of course, but Brusco knew bettter than to put his eggs in one basket; his information network knew of the tensions between the Tyrell and the Lannisters, and that it was only a matter of time before either the Tyrells would be seeking to overthrow the Lannisters, or vice versa.

Thus, Viserys could create a self-fullfilling loop: first, get the promise of a loan from the Iron Bank, on the condition of getting an army and a marriage; then, get the promise of an army on the promise of a loan; then get a marriage on the promise of an army; thus, getting the promised money with the marriage, and finally the promised army with the money. True, when the game of thrones in Westeros was played cautiously, the plan would falter, but the last few years had made clear that the time for caution was coming to an end. The faction of lords backing his niece's ascention to queen was only growing, and had already come to dominate the Vale. And however the dispute between the Lions and the Flowers played out, one of the most powerful families in Westeros would be willing to marry a Targaryen with his own army, to help him retake the throne and make one of their own queen. Once the families behind the most powerful armies in Westeros desperately started fighting it out, they'd be looking for any advantage they can find; and a dragon with an army, even a relatively small one, is quite an advantage.

All of course, on the condition that Robert Baratheon bankrupt the realm, but that would be the easy part; even absent Martell plotting, the desperate financial situation of the Iron Throne was common knowledge to every serious banker; Brusco was not alone in imagining King Robert's current Master of Coin was doing this deliberately, as part of yet some other grand scheme. _Not that it makes a difference; our interests are served by him just fine._

No, the problems came when during negotiations with the mercenary companies. Brusco had planned for the bedrock of Viserys' sellsword company to be either the Golden Company or the Disinherited, the two largest companies in the known world; they, in turn, would be supplanted by either the Company of the Cat or the Windblown, then by smaller sellsword companies. However, the bedrock could never be laid; Harry Strickland had proved cold in negotiations, as Myles Toyne had before him, and Oswell Whent, the disgraced former Kingsguard, plainly told his emissaries that he had no interest in returning to Westeros. This had surprised Brusco more than anything; true, he had only meant the former knight of Harrenhal once, that time at the Tower of Joy, but even so, he found himself surprised that a man who might have died in service to a Prince's bastard would now so dismissively refuse to fullfill his vows, promise of gold or no.

The smaller sellsword companies, at least, were more cooperative; Bloodbeard and the Tattered Prince, aside from hating each other and insisting that when the war came they be stationed as far from each other as possible, proved much more receptive. Also going well was the growth of Viserys' own private company, commonly known as the Sons of Flame, at least according to their commander, Ser Lyn Corbray; after eight years of growth, from Westerosi exiles and Essos adventurers alike, their numbers were now comparable, if not quite as large, as those belonging to the Tattered Prince or Bloodbeard. Still, between these three, as well as a handful of smaller sellsword companies, Viserys had only the promise of service on payment of upwards of 8,000 men. _If I could only bring on Strickland or Whent as I brought on the others, we'd be the stroke of a quill away from having enough men to seize King's Landing._ But that, it seemed, was too much of an "if"; for whatever reasons, neither the Golden Company nor the Disinherited could be convinced to sign the preliminary contract.

Brusco seated himself next to the man who would be king, as Bradamar brought him his own bowl of sardines. "Thank you, Bradamar." The boy nodded and quietly made his way out of the great hall. It seemed, at first, the shared meal would be short, as just as the host began to break his own fast, the guest was ending his, licking the last stains of pepper oil from his fingers. But that was when Viserys spoke again: "Were you looking to ask Connington about the news out of Gulltown?"

Brusco had not heard about this. "No, your Grace." _What has our Master of Whispers failed to notice this time?_

"It seems the Usurper has betrothed his son to my niece."

Brusco froze, the sardine slipping from his fingers. _What? No, that is impossible?_ Trying to compose himself, he asked, "Forgive me, your Grace, I would not be so ready to trust these rumors. We have heard for years of Robert boasting how he would die before marrying into any of the rightful royal family..."

Viserys seemed unperturbed by all this as he shrugged; that only made it harder for Brusco to keep himself together. "Yes, he has been making things easy for me all this time hasn't he? I'd hate to think he's about to break that habit, but the information is solild, I'm told. So there it is."

He could feel a resentment, bordering on rage, rising within him. _Is this the thanks I get for saving her life?_ Though part of him insisted that it was a foolish sentiment, seeking to shame him into accepting what, honestly, should have been a predictable complication, the feeling of betrayal flooding through Brusco would not bend to reason. Despite himself, the memory of Stevron throwing that damned book at the manticore knight persisted in flashing across his mind. He could still remember the regret he felt as he fled for his life from the fat man; _and I never knew how right I was in that moment._

"I imagine, my lord" Viserys said with a smile, "that this alters our schedule?"

The king's host focused on keeping his composure as he answered: "Yes and no. Regardless of these developments, we still need another turn of the moon to finish making arrangements, both with the Iron Bank and our many fighting companies. After that..." Brusco went over the plan again in his mind, trying to find what options remained available. And he found there was only the one. "Highgarden. We will make for Highgarden, by way of Oldtown."


End file.
